


Pahar (Totu-i vis şi armonie)

by itsmylifekay



Series: Pahar [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Punk Steve Rogers, Skinny Steve, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 00:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2752604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmylifekay/pseuds/itsmylifekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Bucky have been friends forever and now they go to the same University-- Steve for Art and French and Bucky for History and Russian. They might not have many classes together, but they do share a room and every other moment in between: flirting, bickering, going out to dinner...not to mention just being generally adorable.</p><p>Or, a fluffy slice of life fic to ease the pain of finals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pahar (Totu-i vis şi armonie)

**Author's Note:**

> The title and parts of the fic involve the poem Pahar, by Ion Mureșan.  
> Also this fic is my baby and i'm more attached to it than i've been to anything else i've written so yeah. hope you like it.

 

Sometimes Bucky looks at Steve and wonders how the hell he ever got so lucky. He wonders who he has to thank upstairs for putting them together, living close enough on the streets of Brooklyn to be classmates and best friends for as long as he can remember, walking through life side by side no matter what comes their way. He thinks about two seeds falling to the ground, taking root and maturing, roots so twisted up that there’s no way to tell them apart, branches entwined and trunks spiraling in gentle arcs towards each other and the sky.

He’s seen trees like that once before. When he’d taken Steve out hiking (a surprise for his birthday) and had stopped dead in his tracks when he caught sight of them towering overhead. The pictures he’d taken are still in his phone, had been his background for weeks-- until he replaced them with a picture of Steve messing around on a swingset, head tipped back and laughing at something Bucky’d said.

Now, Steve’s face is focused, held close to the book in his lap with a furrow between his brows, bottom lip bitten between his teeth and looking entirely too perfect for Bucky to fathom.

He turns back to his own book, _The History of Revolution: How the World Split and Reformed,_ and he’s just gotten to the part where Napoleon’s failing epically in Russia. (Like all other military attempts to invade the Mother Land.) He snorts under his breath and turns back to Steve. “Hey,” he leans back in his chair and reaches into the empty space between them.

Steve looks up at him with an arched eyebrow, glint of hypo-allergenic steel against pale skin. “Aren’t you supposed to be studying?”

Bucky spares a disdainful glance for his textbook. “Yeah, but I already know all this shit. You’re much more interesting.” He rocks a bit farther back in his chair, holding onto his desk with one hand for balance. “So how do you say _You’re a fucking idiot for invading Russia_ in French? Because I’m pretty sure someone should’ve told that to Napoleon.”

“Tu es fou si tu penses que je vais dignifier ça d'une réponse.”

“Fuck,” Bucky groans, dropping his weight back down onto the ground. “I love it when you do that. I don’t even know what you said but...something about dignify? You’re being smart with me, I know you are.”

Steve just shrugs thin shoulders, smug curl to his lips as he ducks back to his reading. “Crétin.”

And Bucky knows that one, has heard it often enough to know when he’s being called a dumbass in that affectionately snarky way Steve has. “Fine, have it your way. Don’t speak English. I’ll just talk to myself and you’ll still be forced to listen.”

He kicks his backpack to the side so he can stand up and turn around, flopping back down with his arms on the back of the chair and his legs straddling the seat. “Should probably start with how fucking cute you looked this morning, had to force myself out the door. Just wanted to crawl back in bed with you, crusty old tsars be damned. But then I remembered how Dr. Holstein gets if you skip a lecture and thought better of it. After all, can’t cuddle you if I’m dead.”

At that, Steve finally looks up. Stares at Bucky like he’s just finished reading twelve pages from the encyclopedia Britannica-- unabridged version. Bucky’s not dissuaded.

“Turned out to be a pretty good class, too, even if I spent half of it scrolling through pictures of you on my phone.”

Steve goes slightly pink at that, the way he always does when Bucky says something so ridiculously sappy. But Bucky’s not the least bit ashamed, he’s come to terms with the fact that he’s completely, irrevocably, stupidly in love with one Steven Grant Rogers and embraced it. Says offhand comments easily as breathing because his love for Steve is _natural_ as breathing, like a part of him, some instinctive response that has his heart constricting in his chest whenever Steve walks into his line of sight.

“Shut up,” Steve grumbles. “Professor should’ve caught you. Delinquent.”

“But I’m _your_ delinquent,” Bucky smirks, “And if we’re speaking English again, and by we I mean you, do you wanna go grab some dinner? Or, if you’re that busy, do you want me to bring something in?”

There’s a moment when Steve turns to the books stacked by his bed, gauges them with critical eyes while flicking absently at the pages of the textbook in his lap. “We can go out.” He says. “But I need to finish reading this first. J’ai un examen demain et je ne peux pas le rater. Donc, s’il te plait, tais-toi pour cinq seconds.”

 _Tais-toi,_ Bucky knows that one as well, and gets up with a sigh to start rummaging around the room, grabbing his wallet and Steve’s key and putting both of them in his back pocket. Steve flicks past another page. His lip is back between his teeth and that furrow’s returned to his brow. (Bucky has to physically stop himself from reaching forward to smooth it away, knows Steve needs to focus because once he’s in the zone he tends to stay there. Unlike Bucky, who goes from zero to fifty to ninety to twenty all in the space of about ten minutes.)

So he walks to the window instead and watches as a group of students exits the dorm across from theirs, laughing and bumping into each other and nearly taking out a student walking the opposite direction. He’s always thought it kind of weird, the way you can watch other people’s lives like that, be a casual observer to the mundane and the fantastic alike. It’s like living in a snowglobe, peering out through the falling mist into the world beyond.

“Totu-i vis şi armonie.” He murmurs into the glass. His fingers are splayed over the cool surface and he presses his forehead against the window as well, takes a few slow breaths while he waits for Steve to finish.

They’d both taken Yoga the year before, had loved it so much that they’re taking it again this semester. Turns out it’s great for Steve’s back, his overall health, and it makes Bucky feel better too. Especially the breathing and meditation. So he works on that now, closing his eyes and breathing from the bottom of his lungs, focusing on the so-hum, inhale-exhale, and letting himself drift in that special place between conscious and not.

The rowdy group of students is long gone when he next opens his eyes, the quiet sound of the bed creaking bringing him back to the present where Steve is looking at him expectantly, already standing and pushing a hand through the long hair at the crown of his head. “Ready?”

“Was just waiting on you, punk.” Bucky grins, walking forward and tugging Steve under his arm, jostling him around a bit before he can escape.

He gets an unamused glare for his efforts, and Steve walking out into the hall without him, leaving him to lock the door then run to catch up at the stairwell. “C’mon, Steve,” he whines. “Don’t be like that.”

He gets another _Look._

“Steve,” he whines, elongating the vowel until his lungs want to burst, making it the entire three flights down and gasping a breath when they finally get outside. There’s a group of students coming in and he ignores the looks they give him in favor of frowning at Steve’s lack of response. He opens his mouth to try again. “St-”

“Buck,” Steve cuts him off. “Good grief, what? What do you need?”

Bucky grins, victorious, and offers a cheeky, “Hi.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Hello.”

Cars are passing in the streets and clouds are drifting overhead and Bucky’s never been so happy to be humored. There’s a content smile on his face as they make their way to the food court and Steve’s smiling too, chuckling and shaking his head as they push through the tills.

And for the millionth time that day, Bucky knows he’s in love.

Knows that he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

←→

“Fuck,” Bucky groans, trudging his way up the stairs with what feels like an anvil strapped to his back, or an elephant. Either way his back is a sweaty, painful mess and he can’t wait to get back to the room. “Why’s it so fucking hot? Why?” He says to no one in particular, making his way down the hall and shoving his key into the lock, listening to the grate of metal before the door blessedly opens. He drops his backpack like the deadweight it is then makes it over to the AC unit before collapsing in the middle of the room, sprawled out on the floor with his cheek pressed into the tile. The cool, _cool_ tile sent directly from heaven.

And while it sucks in the winter, when he sets towels up on the ground so Steve’s feet don’t turn into ice, right now he’s pretty much convinced that AC and tile flooring is the best combination known to man. There’s even a little bit of sun pouring in from the top of the curtains where they don’t quite close, a happy little sunbeam illuminating a single square by Bucky’s right hand. He sticks his pinky out to dip into the light, making a tiny shadow worm that he wriggles around for a minute or two, watching with a tired kind of fascination before he lets his hand fall back to the ground.

It’s only 2:30 so he’s got at least forty five minutes until Steve comes back to the room, fully in French mode and throwing snappy, foreign remarks around at whatever Bucky does. So. He’s got nothing to do except wait. (He could do homework, sure, but he hates studying alone, likes it better when Steve’s tapping a pencil against his lips and flipping through pages across the room.)

A nap seems like the perfect option, and his tired muscles and overheated body all agree that moving is out of the question, so he just closes his eyes and evens out his breathing right there on the floor. The AC hums its approval from the window.

“... _-cky?_ ”

Something nudges at his calf and he groans at it halfheartedly, eyes scrunching up and body rolling over slightly.

“Bucky, réveille-toi, espèce de grande patate.”

“No,” he grumbles back, curling into himself on the floor in an attempt to get comfortable again. The happy little sunbeam from before is now directly in his eyes, joining Steve in telling him to get up, and he grumbles at it too.

He can feel the gust of air as Steve walks past him, hear the thud of his backpack hitting the floor by his desk followed by the scrape of a chair. A few minutes later he hears a book being opened, Steve counting under his breath until he reaches the right page.

A glance at the microwave clock tells him it’s nearly 3:30 so he flops over onto his back with a loud sigh, one arm over his eyes as he tries to muster the motivation to stand.

But at least he’s not hot anymore, the tile and the AC doing their job and the sweat drying on his skin. His shoulders are still a little stiff, but there’s not much he can do about that.

“Steve,” he says. “Can we just take a moment to appreciate the miracle of modern cooling technology? And the modern legal system which enabled us to get a unit installed in our room?”

Steve snorts softly at that. “Nice, Buck. Glad my asthma could come in use for something.”

Bucky pulls his arm below his eyes so he can peer up at Steve. He takes in the gentle curve of his legs, one tucked under him and the other stretched out to the ground, the way the hair at the back of his neck is slightly darker from sweat. “You know I love you, right?” He asks, rolling over onto his stomach so he can see Steve right side up.

Steve looks away from his textbook and gives Bucky a considering once-over. “Well, you do tell me at least five times every day.”

There’s a smile curling his lips and a glint in his eyes and Bucky can’t help himself, stands up and walks over to where Steve is sitting, leans down to press their mouths together in a quick kiss. “Punk,” he mutters.

“Jerk,” Steve says back, rocking up a bit to capture Bucky’s lips again, slim fingers threading in Bucky’s hair and to pull him down to meet him, demanding and stubborn and perfect.

And shit, Bucky will never get used to kissing Steve Rogers. There’s fireworks in his chest and butterflies in his stomach and his entire thought process just kind of whites out for a few minutes. He feels seventeen again, nervous breaths and bumping noses and nothing like the practiced movements he and Steve have now.

They break apart when there’s a knock at the door, Bucky staring down at Steve for a beat before straightening up and striding across the room. Steve turns back to his reading as Bucky pulls open the door.

“Barnes! What’s up man?”

Bucky grins at the guy on the other side. “Not much. How about you? Had to clean up any barf lately?” (Jerome is their RA, and there’s been a few notable occasions when residents have partied too hard and spewed all over the bathroom.)

Jerome groans. “No, thank fuck. Don’t even remind me. I swear the next time it happens I’m going to scream.”

“It’s only the fourth week of school, you’ll be cleaning up twice as much puke by the time spring break rolls around.”

Jerome flicks him the bird, then shakes his head and laughs. “Yeah, well, at least I’m getting paid. But anyway, what I came here for... was wondering if you or Steve had seen the lamp from the lounge? It’s missing.”

“The ugly yellow one or the slightly less ugly blue one?”

“The yellow one.” He shakes his head and sighs. “And it _is_ fucking ugly so I’ve no idea why anyone would want to steal it.”

“Maybe they didn’t steal it.” Steve says from back in the room. “Maybe they were just trying to put it out of its misery.”

Bucky and Jerome both laugh at that.

“Yeah, maybe.” Jerome says. “But I take it you guys haven’t seen it then?”

Bucky shakes his head and only assumes Steve does the same, since Jerome nods and says, “Alright, well tell me if you hear anything. I’m off to interrogate the next victims.”

“Good luck.” Bucky says, saluting him as he shuts the door. He turns back just in time to see Steve roll his eyes. “What?” he asks, walking back over to Steve and putting both hands on the back of his chair, tipping its front legs off the ground.

“You’re ridiculous,” Steve says, eyes flicking over Bucky’s face before he twists in his seat and gets a hand in Bucky’s hair again, tugging him down before Bucky really knows what’s going on. Their lips meet and Bucky groans softly into Steve’s mouth, returning the chair to the ground so he can put his hands on Steve instead, one at his cheek and the other gripping the fabric at the back of his shirt.

It’s like coming home and skydiving all at once. The swoop of his stomach combined with the warmth that fills him to the very core, makes him feel weightless.

It’s just what Steve does to him.

And sometimes Bucky can’t even believe it’s real.

“Totu-i vis şi armonie.” He mumbles into the kiss, not really aware he’s said anything until Steve lets out a disbelieving sound.

“Serios?” Steve asks, pulling away to meet Bucky’s eyes. He’s kneeling on his chair, and Bucky has no idea when that happened, but it means they’re almost at eye level. “Pahar? Serios?”

“Ce?”

Steve sighs, rolls his eyes and leans up to press another kiss to Bucky’s lips before settling back down in his chair. “You’re such a sap,” he mumbles.

And yeah, he is. But when he’s with Steve, everything _is_ dream and harmony. So he can’t be faulted for speaking the truth, even if it is through the words of a fifty-something year old Romanian poet.

He tells Steve as much, and gets a head shake in return. “Alright, Buck. Whatever you say.” But there’s a curve to Steve’s lips and a softness to his face that tells Bucky he agrees, that he believes in those words just as much as Bucky does.

←→

They’re tucked into a corner booth on a Saturday evening, a table between them but their feet touching underneath, looking out over the raucous laughter of other students (who’ve had a bit too much to drink and a bit too little sleep). But it _is_ the weekend, and what their school attempts to pass off as a football team has just won their first game of the season, so Bucky figures they’ve all earned the celebration. If anything, it makes for good entertainment as he and Steve work on the pizza they ordered to share. It’s free of cheese and meats and most of the other things that give Bucky’s tastebuds life, but it’s completely worth it to see Steve enjoy a meal and know he’s responsible for it. That Steve is actually letting him pay. Because it’s a _date_ and Bucky had insisted.

Usually when they go out to eat, it’s just...normal. (Which, don’t get him wrong, is great. Because the fact that he and Steve are best friends first and boyfriends second is something he’d never change.) It’s just that actual dates are something few and far between, usually planned in advance and for a certain occasion.

So he’d been pleasantly surprised when he’d flopped across Steve’s bed earlier in the day and asked, “Hey, wanna go on a date with me?” and Steve had said yes-- after throwing in a few snarky remarks, of course.

The waitress comes by again, smiling sweetly at them and asking if there’s anything else they need. Bucky tells her no, they’re fine, then looks to Steve with a furrow between his eyes because...he feels like… “Isn’t that, like, the third time she’s come by?”

“Took you long enough.” Steve answers, rolling his eyes and taking another bite of his pizza. “She’s been trying to flirt with you all night. I was starting to feel bad for her, honestly.”

It’s said with such an air of nonchalance that Bucky bangs his head down on the table, turns his face just enough to whine. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because it was funny?” Steve lifts an eyebrow like _duh, obvious,_ and Bucky groans and buries his face back in the scratched wood.

“Why can’t you just get jealous like a normal person?”

There’s no answer for a few moments, long enough that Bucky peeks back up at Steve just to be trapped by piercing blue eyes. “Because I don’t have any reason to be jealous.” Steve says, and Bucky melts at the meaning behind those words, the trust that Steve has in him. Steve just shrugs his shoulders. “And it’s not like she was getting anywhere.”

A burst of laughter comes from across the room. The soundtrack to Bucky’s life.

He takes just a moment to marvel at the cruel coincidence before sitting back up and grabbing another slice of pizza. “Yeah, well…” he grumbles. “Wouldn’t want you gettin’ jealous anyway. Would probably be a pain in my ass.”

(He knows as soon as the words are out of his mouth that he’s made a terrible, terrible mistake. Even before the evil grin slides across Steve’s face and he pushes his foot harder into Bucky’s beneath the table.)

Thankfully, by the time the waitress comes back again, they’re ready for the bill. Not so thankfully, Bucky notices that she’s unbuttoned another notch down her shirt, and is leaning a little too close to grab his empty glass.

“Separate checks then?” She asks.

Bucky shakes his head, lets a relaxed grin curve his lips as he says. “Nah, just bring it to me.” And he watches as the emotions flicker across her face, questioning and confusion and then for some reason, humor.

“Lose a bet?” She’s got a wry set to her mouth and is sizing them both up as if wondering what kind of bet they could’ve possibly had.

And ah, yeah, that...no.

“Won it, actually.” He says, keeping his voice light. “I bet this punk would go out with me and he said yes. And since I asked, I’m paying.”

Steve covers a laugh behind his hand and Bucky nudges him under the table, smiles sweetly up at her as she stammers for a moment, regaining her balance. “Oh. Well, that makes sense.”

“He just wouldn’t take no for an answer.” Steve pipes in. “Was the same way when he first asked me out five years ago.” (Five years in November, actually, but Bucky figures a little rounding is allowed. Especially when it’s for dramatic effect.)

“Well, sounds like you’ve got something real special then.” She says, disappointment in her eyes but a smile back on her face. Bucky has to applaud her recovery.  “I’ll just be right back with your check.”

She gets swallowed back into the crowded restaurant and as soon as she’s out of earshot Steve takes a sip of his drink and says, “I’ll give her an eight. Smile was back on pretty quick, but overall recovery time wasn’t great.”

“Agreed,” Bucky reaches over to grab the drink from Steve’s hand, takes a swallow and grins over the rim at Steve’s unamused expression. And maybe it’s a little weird, this rating thing they do, but the frequency with which people try to flirt with Bucky is disturbingly high and honestly he’s just happy Steve treats it as a game, doesn’t get as upset about it as other people might. He wishes he could say the same for himself. Because if someone tries to flirt with _Steve_ when he’s around...it usually ends with Bucky sticking close to Steve’s side and throwing an arm over his shoulders all while Steve just laughs and rolls his eyes.

Either way, they both try to take it as a compliment for their excellent choice in partner.

There’s an easy silence between them after that, the check coming without conflict and Bucky handing over the necessary bills, walking close to Steve’s side as they make their way back out beneath the darkening sky where sidewalk disappears beneath their feet. Groups of students are still milling about, some couples too, and there’s a boy and a girl in front of them wrapped up in each other, faces pressed so close together Bucky wonders how they can still walk. His hand itches to reach out and hold Steve’s, but PDA’s never been something Steve’s overly comfortable with, and Bucky respects that. He does. So he just stays close instead, shoulders brushing and head hanging low to catch every bit of light flicker over that familiar profile.

(But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t take liberties when he can.)

When they get to a secluded part of campus, a wooded area that hardly anyone walks through, paths often too muddy for the faint of heart, Bucky does a quick glance around then touches the tips of his fingers to Steve’s wrist. Their fingers slide together seamlessly and Bucky sighs at the feeling, flexing his hand to get an even better grip. Steve’s hands are thin, but large, with long fingers that fit perfectly between Bucky’s knuckles.

It’s even more perfect because of the ink on their skin, the twisting patterns on their wrists that align when they hold each other’s hands. It had been Steve’s idea, an offering for their fourth anniversary to immortalize one of Bucky’s favorite things as colorful design, a reminder that they’re together even when they can’t be. It’s the only tattoo Bucky has, but Steve’s got more.

A lot more.

And Bucky loves to trace over them in the middle of the night, when Steve’s asleep sprawled across his chest. Loves to run his fingers over the patterns on his sides, his shoulders, the full sleeve on his left arm and the partial on his right. He loves all of them because they’re all a part of Steve. But he does have a favorite. It’s centered just above Steve’s shoulder blades, on top of his spine, a simple black heart that he’d shown Bucky before the start of this school year.

It’s the only tattoo Steve has that’s not abstract design. The only tattoo that’s a thick, solid color never meant to be changed or covered or replaced. And it’s right over the spot Bucky likes to bury his face, likes to bite and lick and kiss when they’re having sex and Steve is panting underneath him. It’s right over the spot Bucky rests his forehead after a long day, when he pulls Steve into his lap and just holds him because he needs to. It’s where he puts his hand when they’re curled up together in bed, where his thumb brushes over as he waits for Steve to fall asleep.

He’d cried when Steve had shown him. And he’s not ashamed to admit it.

Now, there’s a tug on his hand and he stumbles a few steps to the left then turns to look at Steve, realizing through the confusion that they’re almost back to their dorm. “Sorry, kind of spaced out for a second there.”

“I noticed,” Steve says wryly, “You nearly brained yourself against a tree limb just now.”

Glancing back over his shoulder, Bucky sees the branch in question and bumps Steve’s shoulder with his own. “Well thanks for saving me, punk.” He can hear other students shouting up ahead so he carefully separates their hands, smirks at Steve as he spins around to walk backwards. “I owe you a debt of gratitude.” He does an exaggerated bow and grins when Steve scoffs at him.

“Gonna let me pick the movie then?”

Bucky pretends to consider this for a moment, as if he wasn’t already planning to let Steve choose. As if they both didn’t already know that. “Seems like an equal trade.”

They pass the group of students, and another closer to their dorm, and then Bucky’s pulling open the door, holding it for Steve to walk beneath his arm. Steve murmurs a _thanks_ and they start climbing stairs, Bucky sucking in a breath when Steve reaches back and loosely tangles their fingers together. His heart feels like it’s soaring in his chest-- the world is bright and warm despite the fading hours.

The door shuts behind them when they get to their room and Steve pulls him close, lets go of Bucky’s hand just to bury all those artist’s fingers in Bucky’s hair instead, drag him down for a kiss that leaves Bucky breathless and wondering.

“What was that for?” he asks dumbly, lips tingling and mouth slightly parted as he watches Steve walk backwards into the room.

Steve shrugs. But his fingers have found the hem of his shirt and then he’s pulling it over his head, baring marked skin and fragile collarbones that Bucky groans low in the back of his throat at, closes the space between them in record time to bury his face in the crook of Steve’s neck, breathing him in and kissing at his shoulder. “What about the movie?” he asks, somewhat redundantly considering the way Steve’s working at his fly.

(He’s not really surprised when Steve doesn’t dignify him with a response, just turns his head and nudges Bucky’s face up, gets their mouths back together as they lose shoes and socks and pants on the way to the bed.)

Then, finally, Steve’s sprawled out against the sheets, naked and beautiful and Bucky can’t peel his eyes away. He sucks in a breath as time seems to slow around them. “Totu-i vis şi armonie,” he whispers, on his hands and knees with Steve below him.

Steve’s face softens and he lifts a hand to trace fingers down Bucky’s chest. “Totu-i vis şi armonie,” he agrees.

And they haven’t bothered to turn the lights on in the room, but there’s just enough slipping through the curtains for Bucky to trace all the delicate plans of Steve’s body with his eyes, drink him in and drag the pads of his fingers over skin like whispered praises. Steve shivers against him and Bucky has to kiss him again, lips coming together in something so soft and perfect Bucky never wants it to end.

Not for anything in the world.

←→

The sun is high in the sky, shining warm light on Bucky’s face as he sits across from Steve’s building on a low stone wall lining a flower bed. There’s a only a few people milling about, most everyone in class or at lunch, and the only sounds are the leaves rustling in the light breeze and the lawn mower going somewhere out of sight. His legs are stretched out in front of him and his arms are back, supporting him as he stares up at the clouds floating overhead.

Minutes go by and his eyes have fallen closed, but he opens them when he hears someone laugh, turning to look at a group of girls as they pass, offering a smile when they blush and whisper something underneath their breath. He thinks they’re going to approach him, but then he sees a familiar floppy blond mohawk making its way towards him from across the way. His eyes find Steve’s and he gives him a wide smile, not breaking the eye contact even as Steve comes up to stand between his outstretched legs.

“Hey, Steve.” He says. Then, lower, under his breath so Steve won’t be too mad. “How was class, babe?”

Steve blushes regardless, going pink to the tips of his pierced-up ears. “It was fine,” Steve grumbles, kicking one of Bucky’s legs out of the way so he can flop down at Bucky’s side. “You?”

The girls have moved off, but not before staring and giggling even more. Bucky gives them a six.

“It was good, lots of vodka and wars nobody really wanted.” He leans over to whisper in Steve’s ear. “Couldn’t stop thinking about last night, though.”

Steve smacks him in the chest. Hard. “Taci, dracului pervers.”

“Ce?” Bucky asks, lips as close to Steve’s neck as he dares. “Nu-ți place?”

“Buck,” Steve hisses. “Serios?”

Bucky is about to respond with another teasing comment when someone walks up to them, a nervous guy who Bucky would bet money is a first year. “Um, excuse me?” the guy says. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but...”

“It’s fine,” Steve says, smiling at him while covertly elbowing Bucky in the side. “What can we help you with?”

The guy fiddles with his backpack and produces an expensive looking camera, looking back up at them with an uncertain expression. “I was actually wondering if you would... let me take your picture? For my art class?”

Steve’s brow furrows. “Um, I guess so. But can I ask why?”

“Well, the contrast is just...really cool? And the background of the flowers... And the lighting’s very good. But mostly the contrast. You look...sitting together...very eye-catching.”

Bucky laughs lightly. “God, you sound like Steve. Art nerds should stick together.”

The guy’s eyes widen and he glances between both of them. “Steve? Are you…?” He gestures weakly in Steve’s direction. “Are you in the art school, too?”

“Yeah, metalworking and jewelry.” He holds his hand out. “Steve Rogers.”

“Alexei Krikov.” He shakes Steve’s hand. “I’ve seen your work in the gallery. Very beautiful.”

Steve opens his mouth to no doubt spew some bullshit about how it isn’t that great and he’s just starting and there’s lots of room to improve, but Bucky beats him to it, holds out his own hand and says, “Bucky Barnes. And yeah, he’s pretty amazing, isn’t he? I’m lucky he puts up with my uncultured ass.”

His hand is shaken and then Alexei takes a step back, adjusts something on his camera and clears his throat. “Well, I’ll just be a moment. Continue...as you were before? Just...natural.”

He takes a few more steps then lifts the camera, focusing the lens before starting to take a few shots. Bucky turns to Steve. “Crezi că vorbește română?”

“Taci, Buck.” Steve grumbles. “Either way, it’s not polite to talk in front of people when they can’t understand.”

Bucky groans under his breath. “Steve, you realize the whole reason we fucking _learned_ Romanian was so we could talk about people in front of them.”

“No, we learned so we could talk without being listened in on. There’s a difference.” He says it with such a prim expression that Bucky nearly loses it, settles for muffles his laughter in Steve’s shoulder instead.

“Okay, yeah, whatever you say...” He picks his head up just enough to whisper a teasing, _“babe”_ in Steve’s ear before sitting up straight again.

And that’s when Alexei bustles back over, smiling and brandishing his camera at them. “Look, look at this!” He clicks a few buttons then flips the screen towards them. “Very beautiful, yeah? You two.”

And...seeing it like this, through someone else’s eyes, Bucky has to admit he and Steve make a very striking image. Alexei’s comment about contrast and eye-catching makes a lot more sense now.

Because Steve is gorgeous (as usual), sitting on the wall with his ankles crossed, skinny jeans leading into scuffed black boots. He’s got on a white button-up, done up to the very top button, and if Bucky looks hard enough he can see the way Steve’s tattoos spill onto his shoulders and chest, hazy outlines beneath light fabric. There’s the piercings as well, in Steve’s eyebrow and lining the shells of his ears. And overall Bucky is struck with how amazing Steve pulls everything together. How he somehow manages to look so strong and so fragile at the same time. He’s got metal in his body, but his legs don’t even fill out his damn skinny jeans. There’s tattoos up his arms and peeking out from his collar, but his wrists look so thin they could snap.

Bucky really wants to kiss him. Whisper all those things to him as he takes him apart beneath the sheets. But his eyes have caught on his own depiction, tousled brown hair and a simple grey v-neck, straight cut jeans and converse. There’s stubble around his jaw and he’s sprawled out in a way that makes him seem softer, eyes full of something that he easily recognizes as love as he’s looking down at Steve.

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat. “Yeah, that’s really...you’ve got a good eye.”

Alexei shrugs. “I have good luck. I’m glad I happened to see you.”

Beside him, Steve finally shifts, reaching forward hesitantly before asking, “Can I…?” And Alexei nods, allows Steve to click through a few more of the photos. Then, he drops his hand back to his lap and looks to Bucky with his bottom lip between his teeth.

And _shit_ Bucky really wants to kiss him.

But Steve turns back to Alexei instead, asks, “Could you send these to me? I won’t put them online or anything. I just...I’d like to be able to see them again.”

“Of course,” Alexei nods. “Of course, I would love you to have them. Your studio, I will stop by this week? Give you a flashdrive.”

“Sounds good. And thank you.”

Alexei waves off the thanks then says his goodbyes, heading off to his next class and leaving Bucky and Steve to themselves. Once again, it’s the sound of the leaves and the soft drone of a lawn mower now even farther away.

Bucky swallows thickly. “Well, that was, kind of amazing. But we’re not going to have any time for lunch.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “But worth it. I can’t wait to get my hands on those pictures.”

They stand up together and start walking in the direction of their next class. The only one they share. And Bucky doesn’t know what would be worse at this point, having to leave Steve and go to class alone, or sitting by him for an entire hour without being able to touch him.

“Steve?” he asks, voice soft as they pass by another building, cast into its shadow and framed by trees. He stops, and Steve stops with him. “Can I…?” He starts, then tries again. “Please, I just-”

“Buck,” Steve sighs, reaching out to wind fingers through one of Bucky’s belt loops. “Yes, c’mere.”

And Bucky doesn’t need anything more than that, pulls Steve close and covers his mouth with his own, biting gently at that tempting bottom lip before kissing it in apology. “Love you so fucking much,” he murmurs. “So, so fucking much.”

Steve moans softly when Bucky kisses him next, parting his lips when Bucky presses tentatively forward and letting Bucky kiss him like he actually _means_ it. They’re out in the middle of campus and the clouds are their witnesses and Bucky feels like he might die with how much love is beating through his chest.

“Love you too, Buck.” Steve breathes, giving him one last lingering kiss before stepping back. “And I’ll love you even more if we can continue this after class.”

And yeah. Bucky can definitely live with that.

←→

“Fucking hell,” Bucky pants. “Can’t fucking believe it...second time this week…”

And it’s only _Wednesday._

Wednesday, and he’s sprinting across campus, running until his legs want to give out because they’re doing some kind of renovation in the building their history of gender and sexuality class is in-- meaning there’s dust and all other manner of airborne irritates floating through the halls-- and Steve, the little shit, when Bucky asked if he had his inhaler had only patted his pockets a few times before saying, “Think I left it in the studio, actually.” And then he’d fucking _shrugged,_ like it was no big deal. Like the potential closing of his airways was just a casual thing.

“In the studio?” Bucky had deadpanned. “Are you serious?”

“Well, it could be back in our room too. I don’t know.”

“Fucking _hell,_ Steve.” Bucky had groaned. And Steve had just looked at him with his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised as if daring Bucky to say anything more. Too bad for him Bucky is way past putting Steve’s pride above his safety. “Alright, fine, I’ll check both. Hopefully it’s in the studio since that’s closer. And since you should have it there with you regardless, considering all the _fumes_ you work around.”

And after giving Steve the task of buying them lunch, he’d taken off sprinting across campus, praying he’d get back before his stubborn asshole of a boyfriend decided to go into the building without Bucky or his medication. Judging by the eyeroll he had gotten at his instructions, Bucky would have to be very fast.

Thus the way his muscles are currently screaming at him and his lungs are wondering what the fuck is going on, feet pounding cement as he rounds the next building and bursts out onto the street Steve’s art building is on. The sad part is that as he finally shoves through the doors, goes sprinting through the halls like a maniac, the other students just casually step out of the way.

Because this is a usual occurrence for them.

Because Bucky is seen sprinting around campus for Steve’s inhaler on a pretty much weekly basis.

The door to Steve’s studio is locked but he’s had a key to it since the beginning of first year, opens it quickly and steps inside to start searching. Sometimes, he has to practically turn the whole place over before he finds it, has to work around piles of sketches and post-its and bits of metal and all manner of other art related things. Other times, it’s not here at all and Bucky has to sprint the rest of the way to their room just to find it sitting on top of Steve’s bed, or underneath some socks in the closet. (Bucky doesn’t know how Steves managed that last one, but it had happened nonetheless.)

But the fates are smiling on him today, and he finds the medication fairly easily: the light blue inhaler and the clear plastic spacer are sitting on Steve’s desk under a few errant doodles. He smiles fondly when he sees one of them is a sketch of himself, but doesn’t have time to linger, snatching up what he came for before tearing back towards the science building.

Steve gets there about the same time he does, stopping his casual stroll when he sees Bucky running towards him, lifting an unimpressed eyebrow when Bucky doubles over to pant once he’s reached his side.

“You...fucking...punk…” Bucky groans. “Stop...forgetting...your shit…”

Steve takes his things from Bucky’s hands and stuffs them in the side pocket of his backpack. “This wouldn’t be an issue if you didn’t worry so much.” He rolls his eyes at Bucky’s glare. “I would’ve been _fine,_ Buck. Seriously.”

Bucky’s still too winded to argue properly, so he settles for glaring even harder, throwing an arm over Steve’s shoulder and rattling him around as they walk into the building. “Gonna fucking kill me one day, Rogers.” He sucks in a breath, heart rate slowly starting to descend. “You and your stubborn ass.”

Steve grins slyly at that. “Am crezut că-ți place de fundul meu?”

“Da,” Bucky sighs. “Da, într-adevăr.”

They slide into their seats, next to each other like always, and ignore the side-eyes they’re getting from a few of their classmates, Bucky flopping across his desk and reaching out to splay his arm obnoxiously across Steve’s space as well. Steve looks down at it disdainfully for a moment before digging in his backpack and pulling out his book, plopping it down on Bucky’s arm as if it’s not even there. And yeah, he might have a bit of a bruise from that later, but it doesn’t change the fact that the little pout on Steve’s face as he did it was one of the most adorable things Bucky’s ever seen.

He waggles his arm a bit, then whines _‘foooood’_ until Steve reaches into his backpack and chucks a sandwich at Bucky’s head. Followed by a carrot pack. And a bag of chips. They all fall more or less gracelessly into Bucky’s lap and he withdraws his arm from Steve’s personal space in order to arrange them carefully on his desk. The sandwich is chicken salad and he bites back a smile. Because it’s one of his favorites, but he rarely gets it because it’s one of _Steve’s_ favorites too...the only difference being Steve can’t eat it without getting an upset stomach.

But he takes the gift for what it is, bites into soft bread and delicious filling with a quiet gratitude. He finishes everything off quickly, starving after his trek across campus, then swipes Steve’s water bottle to drain half of it in one go. Steve rolls his eyes at that, too, and Bucky really worries that one day they might just roll entirely out of his head.

Which would be amusing, to say the least.

But Steve’s _his_ sassy little shit, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

(It turns out Steve doesn’t need his inhaler that class, but next week- when the renovation is closer to their room- he does. And Bucky is there to help him grab his inhaler from the depths of his backpack, rub his back and take him outside where the prying eyes of their classmates won’t be between their shoulders.

Steve still manages to tell him he worries too much.)

←→

Bucky shuts the door gently behind him, trying to move as quietly as possible around the room in the semi-darkness. He’s barely lifting his feet off the ground as he moves towards his desk, sets his backpack down and starts stripping out of his henley and jeans. If he could he’d be fucking levitating, anything to keep Steve from waking up. Because the sound of Steve’s congested breathing has his own chest tightening and the need to make sure Steve’s okay is paramount in his mind.

So he pulls his sweatpants on quickly then edges underneath the covers, easing Steve back against him as gently as he can. At least like this, he can keep Steve warm, and keep an eye on things...just in case. He splays his hand out over Steve’s chest and focuses on the way it lifts and falls shallowly beneath his fingertips. Weak gusts of air that have Bucky swallowing and nuzzling at the back of Steve’s neck, unspoken prayers on his lips, brushed against fever-warm skin.

Steve makes a soft noise in the back of his throat when Bucky starts rubbing circles against the dip in his ribs-- a small, concave area that makes his breathing that much more difficult. A place that Bucky’s kissed countless times.

Minutes pass, slipping by and building slowly into quarter hours, halves, until Bucky’s been curled under the covers for three hours with Steve sleeping peacefully the entire time. At about the first hour mark, Steve had still been passed out cold, and a group of students stampeding down the halls hadn’t even caused a stir, so Bucky had quietly slipped out of bed and grabbed his backpack, propping it up beside the bed for easy reach. And two hours later his phone is warning him of impending battery loss and his final reading is propped up in his lap, one page left to go. He’s got one hand on the book, tracing words with his fingers and flicking through pages as he needs, but the other is on Steve. Always. In his hair, on his back, rubbing at his chest or stroking gently at his face. Always somewhere though, always touching. And he’s made sure to stay pressed up close alongside Steve’s thin frame, offering heat and comfort and whatever else he can give.

So he notices as soon as Steve starts waking up. He feels the tiny shift in position, the slight hitch of breath. And he looks down just in time to see blond eyelashes flutter open and flick about before blue eyes squint up at Bucky through the darkness.

“Buck?” Steve asks. It’s raspy and horrible and Bucky reaches immediately for the water bottle on the floor. Steve pushes himself upright when he sees it, takes it wordlessly from Bucky’s outstretched hand.

“What’s up, punk?” Bucky asks, trying for casual but knowing some of his concern is bleeding through. He can’t help it. And it’s not like Steve isn’t used to it by now.

Steve takes a long drink, wincing at the swallow, then tosses the bottle back in Bucky’s direction. (It lands on the covers between his legs and he decides to leave it there for when Steve needs it again.)

“Just my lungs trying to kill me again, it’s fine.” Steve jokes. The sheets rustle as he flops back down and Bucky is reminded of crisp hospital linens and clear plastic tubes and Mrs. Rogers trying to explain pneumonia to a seven year old boy.

“Could be worse,” Bucky says softly. He strokes a hand over Steve’s face and pushes at the bangs hanging in front of his eyes. “They said you should be okay by the end of the week. So that’s something at least.”

Steve hums in agreement, then lets out a sigh. “Doesn’t make all the make-up work any less horrible though.” He glances ruefully at the textbooks Bucky has scattered across the bed. “Should probably try to get some of it done tomorrow.”

Bucky just shakes his head. “You need to rest, Steve. Wearing yourself out will just make it last longer, gotta keep yourself strong so your body can fight.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve grumbles, then rolls over so he’s sprawled half into Bucky’s lap. “Fucking stupid,” he slurs into Bucky’s thigh. “Hate just laying around.”

And Bucky knows that, knows how much Steve hates being immobile, laid up in bed for sometimes weeks at a time. He’s as restless as the wind outside their window, rattling the glass with gusts exchanging summer to autumn to winter to spring. Seeing Steve sick is like the most depressing days in fall, when the sky is just a flat grey soup and the air is still and the leaves are all down and scattered and soggy on the ground. It’s the waiting between seasons. The last five minutes of class. It’s the agony of watching each second tick by knowing there’s something better just around the bend.

(And the terror of another, unspoken, alternative.)

But he pushes that aside for now, slips fingers through Steve’s hair instead and scratches at his scalp. “Mr. Harris asked about you today, wanted to know if you were okay.”

Steve lets out a grunt of acknowledgment.

“I swear, if he wasn’t such an amazing teacher I would not have signed up for the eight o’clock class. Bending and stretching at that time in the morning...things crack that I didn’t even know I _had,_ Stevie.” Bucky shakes his head, rambling to give a small distraction from the discomfort he knows Steve’s in. “But anyway, I told him you were out sick since Tuesday, respiratory thing, and he wishes you well.”

Steve’s smiles warmly against his thigh and Bucky moves his hand down to rub at the tense chords of Steve’s neck, cupping his head with both hands to move it into a better position before digging in with his thumbs. Steve lets out a soft groan.

And this is one of the reasons Bucky rolls out of bed for an early yoga class instead of catching another couple hours of sleep. It’s because Mr. Harris has been spectacular to them, _for_ them.

During their first year, when he’d found out all of the issues Steve’s struggles with physically, he’d taken Steve aside and given him extra tips, extra help for how to relieve back pain or open up the lungs. And when he’d found out Bucky’s significance in Steve’s life, he’d gladly shared all of those things with Bucky as well. He taught them how to be mindful, how to be healthy, and how to help each other. And Bucky will never be able to express how grateful he is for all of that.

Once all the knots are out of Steve’s neck, Bucky pats him between the shoulder blades and nudges him gently off his lap. Steve flops over with a nearly silent huff of breath, limbs loose and hair spread across the pillow, rows of empty holes in his ears that Bucky runs over with his finger. “You should try to eat something.” He says, thumb swiping in a firm stroke behind Steve’s ear. “Does anything actually sound good?”

Steve grunts and Bucky combs his fingers across the shaved side of Steve’s head, up to his tousled hair. “Saltines? Chicken noodle?” There’s no response for awhile, just Steve breathing quietly into the pillows, and Bucky wonders for a moment if he’s fallen back asleep. Then Steve shifts beneath Bucky’s hand, looks up at him through one cracked eye.

“Do we have jello?”

And...usually that would be yes. Jello is pretty much a staple in their mini-fridge due to its many mystical properties (ranging from coming in about a thousand different flavors to not upsetting Steve’s stomach). But that’s pretty much all Steve’s been eating for the past week, and even their reserves weren’t that strong. Bucky obviously needs to go out and get more.

“Uh,” He stalls. “No? But I’ll just go grab some from the food court real quick, not a problem.” He gets up and grabs his coat and wallet, ignores Steve’s sighed ‘ _Bucky_ ’ and leans down to press a kiss to the top of Steve’s head on his way out the door. “Be back in five.”

True to his word, five minutes later he’s pushing back through the door with a carry container full of jello and a fruit cup. “Okay,” he starts, shutting the door and turning around, freezing when he notices the empty bed. His eyes immediately flick to Steve’s desk, where the fucking idiot is propped up trying to read a textbook.

“Steve, what the hell-”

“Before you say anything,” Steve interrupts. “I just need to finish this chapter. I’m already going to be behind, the least I can do is keep up with the reading.”

And yeah, a convincing argument, if Steve didn’t sound like he’d just gotten through smoking fifty packs of cigarettes and gargling some glass shards while he said it.

He shakes his head in a kind of amused exasperation, because only _Steve_ would insist on doing work even when he was sick. Anyone else and they’d be jumping at the excuse to lay in bed and watch Netflix all day. He swipes the thermometer off the top shelf of his desk and holds it out in front of Steve’s mouth. “Read while this does it’s thing, then we’ll see about the whole chapter.”

Steve glares at him half-heartedly, but lets Bucky stick the plastic between his lips.

And while the digital numbers work their way upwards, Bucky moves around the room, actually unpacking his backpack and getting his books and papers in order just in time for Steve to start beeping. He immediately starts humming the jeopardy theme as he makes his way over, leaning nonchalantly against the desk while Steve glares daggers up at his face. “Drum roll please,” Bucky says, voice lowered to sound like one of those crappy day-time TV hosts. He reaches out and plucks the thermometer from Steve’s mouth, glancing down at the numbers and stopping the way his feet are drumming on the floor.

Steve’s still looking at him like he’s an idiot.

Bucky clears his throat. “99.6,” he says. “Which means you, sir, can _finish_ _that chapter_.” He half sings the last few words, throwing up some jazz-hands as well for extra dramatic effect.

“Wonderful.” Steve deadpans, turning back to his book with a last sassy eyeroll in Bucky’s direction.

And Bucky loves it, because if Steve is feeling well enough to be an ornery asshole again then that means they’re finally around the bend. Means that Steve should be back at full _pain-in-Bucky’s-ass_ capacity by Monday. He can only pray. (He hates seeing Steve sick, has seen too much of it in his lifetime. And if there’s one person who doesn’t deserve to have spent years of his life in a hospital bed, it’s Steve.)

He plops the jello and fruit at Steve’s elbow, grabs a microwave mac ‘n cheese cup for himself, and starts in on his latest history paper while his dinner boils. University. Such a glamorous life, really.

A few hours later and he’s cracking his knuckles and leaning back in his chair, letting out a low groan and glancing over his shoulder at Steve. (The little soldier’d passed out about an hour ago and is still sleeping with his head in his book.) Bucky huffs affectionately and stands up, gets the bed ready before heading over to Steve. The jello cup is empty, and the fruit’s been picked at, and Bucky will take that as a victory, throws away the jello container before popping the fruit in the fridge.

“Stevie,” he whispers, running a gentle hand down the other man’s back. “Stevie, I’m gonna pick you up, okay? Taking you to bed, so don’t punch me please.”

He leans down and gets an arm around Steve’s shoulder and another looped beneath his knees, shushing Steve’s intake of breath as he gets him cradled against his chest. “It’s alright, babe,” he murmurs. “It’s alright.”

Steve relaxes easily onto the mattress, eyes barely fluttering as Bucky puts him down. He shifts slightly when Bucky pulls away to shut off the lights, but is boneless again by the time Bucky crawls in beside him. Normally, Bucky would be gathering Steve into his chest, into their normal position of Steve curled against him, or even completely draped over him like a boney, fidgety blanket, but Bucky doesn’t dare move him just yet. Doesn’t dare wake him up anymore than he already has.

So he’s a little disoriented when he wakes up next and his chest is cold, his arms empty. He wonders briefly if that isn’t what woke him...if Steve had gotten up to go to the bathroom...but then his muddled brain catches up to the present and he realizes Steve’s still in bed with him. And it’s Steve’s _breathing_ that’s woken him up.

“Shit,” he mumbles, sitting up groggily and grabbing at Steve, hoisting him upright and tugging him back against his chest. “Shit Steve, why didn’t you wake me up?”

“Just...did…” Steve manages to get out, two words that quickly deteriorate into a coughing fit.

Bucky is not amused. But Steve looks even less thrilled with the situation so he holds back his own sarcastic remark. “How long have you been awake?”

Steve squints across the room. “About an hour,” he shrugs his shoulders, a small movement beneath his shirt. “Thought it would pass.”

“And I see that’s working out great for you.” (Okay, so he’s not a saint. Sue him.)

He reaches over the side of the bed and pulls out a plastic bag clearly labeled _Not Lube,_ brings it up so he can fish out the small container of vaporub. Steve groans at the sight of it.

“That shit doesn’t even work, Buck. C’mon.”

Bucky shoots him a look and Steve sighs, but pulls off his shirt, knowing the lengths which Bucky is willing to go in order to slather the stuff across his chest. (There have been wrestling matches, chases around the room, desk scaling, bed jumping...Bucky’s immutable when it comes to matters of Steve’s health.)

“It might not do anything for the actual shit in your lungs, but it tricks your brain into _thinking_ we’ve done something about the actual shit in your lungs.” He pushes Steve onto his back and starts working on the lid. “It means you can sleep. And then your _immune_ system can do it’s thing. So it helps.” He starts spreading the stuff onto Steve’s skin and wrinkles his nose up at the smell. “Even if it does make the room smell like a medicine cabinet.”

Steve just groans again.

Bucky ignores him.

And the vaporub goes on without a hitch.

“You’ll thank me in the morning,” Bucky grins, pressing a kiss to the side of Steve’s head. His smile grows even wider when Steve just huffs at him like a child, then drops when Steve lets out another round of bone-rattling coughs. (Then it’s his turn to groan, and for Steve to look over at him with poorly concealed pain in his eyes.)

“C’mere,” he says. He holds an arm out and Steve curls into it wordlessly, lets Bucky adjust them under the covers and into their usual position, vaporub getting smeared all along Bucky’s side, but he can’t even find it in himself to care. Because he’s got Steve’s head propped up on his shoulder and one skinny thigh across his own. “Just try to sleep,” he murmurs.

Steve breathes in against his skin, pushes that little bit closer, and Bucky starts to hum.

 _“Спи, моя радость, усни._ _В доме погасли огни. Пчёлки затихли в саду, Рыбки уснули в пруду.”_

His fingers brush softly against Steve’s back, feeling the rise and fall of it as he sings, trying to make gentle patterns around Steve’s spine, follow the trails of ink he can’t see in the darkness.

_“Месяц на небе блестит, Месяц в окошко глядит. Глазки скорее сомкни, Спи, моя радость, усни. Усни, усни…”_

“Russian?” Steve asks softly, voice muffled in Bucky’s chest. There’s a rush of wind against the windowpane and the slam of a door down the hall.

Bucky hums his affirmation.

“Sleep, Steve.” He says, sweeping his thumb over the heart tattoo between Steve’s shoulder blades before starting up again.

_“В доме всё стихло давно, В погребе, в кухне – темно. Дверь ни одна не скрипит, Мышка за печкою спит.”_

He feels Steve slip off as he sings the last verse, but keeps going anyway, voice soft and warm as Steve’s breaths even out.

_“Кто-то вздохнул за стеной, Что нам за дело, родной. Глазки скорее сомкни, Спи, моя радость, усни. Усни, усни… Усни…”_

←→

Bucky’s whistling a show tune under his breath as he strolls down the hall, hands in his pockets and slight swing to his shoulders. It’s been a good day. A Friday. So good by default, really, but lunch with Steve had been great and his classes had been interesting and he’s managed to make a fairly sizable dent in his homework as well-- can call it quits for the night and finish the rest tomorrow afternoon. So yeah, it’s been a good day.

Which of course means that as he pushes the bathroom door open with his shoulder, not really paying that much attention to where he’s going with the full-fledged musical number he’s got going in his head, he manages to nearly plow over whoever’s coming out.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, already taking a step back. “Wasn’t watching where I was go- Steve?”

His eyebrows furrow together and he looks down at his boyfriend, hair dripping wet and a towel wrapped around his waist, bony chest all damp and goose-pimply. And normally, Bucky would be happy about such an occurrence (fucking ecstatic, really) except...behind Steve, the bathroom is pitch black, the only light what’s coming in over Bucky’s shoulder.

“Showering in the dark? Is this some new thing I should know about?”

Steve pushes his bangs off his forehead, slicking them back in a way that immediately makes Bucky want to mess it all up again. “No, just some assholes thinking it’s funny to shut the lights off on me.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Bucky asks. “What the fuck?”

“Yeah, it’s stupid and immature and if I catch them doing it they’ll regret it.” There’s a familiar fire in Steve’s eyes as he hitches his towel more firmly around his hips, makes to move out into the hall until Bucky puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Steve, how long has this been going on?”

He feels Steve shrug more than sees it.

“Almost since the beginning of the year.” Steve says. “They were picking on that shy kid down the hall, Thomas, and I told ‘em to fuck off. And they did, left Thomas alone, decided it’d be better fun to dump my clothes on the bathroom floor instead.” His face is pinched with that righteous fury Bucky both loves and fears and he lets out a huff of frustration as he goes on, “And then, when I just brought my towel and hung that in the door, they figured they’d just turn the lights off on me. They adapt, I’ll give them that.”

Bucky doesn’t know whether to shake Steve for not telling him or just storm down the hall and strangle the assholes who’ve been doing this. But _fuck,_ he’s been wondering for awhile why Steve was suddenly only taking his towel to the bathroom (Steve had _always_ just changed right after showing). “Steve, c’mon, it’s not like you to just let ‘em get away with it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you haven’t, not encouraging anything that ends with you a bloody mess, but I kind of wish you’d at least given ‘em a reason to stop.”

Steve just shakes his head. “I figure it’s better me than Thomas, or anyone else for that matter.” He shifts a bit under Bucky’s hand. “But if they’re ever stupid enough to actually show their faces around me, I can assure you they’ll regret it. But they’re cowards. Idiotic, unimaginative cowards. And I have better things to do with my time then hunt them down. Bigger fish to fry.”

Bucky lifts his eyebrows. “Like that stunt you pulled with our gender studies professor?”

(Steve had gone on a rant the last class that would’ve made a saint feel guilty, pointing out how fucked up the legal system still is in relation to equal rights to marginalized groups and how social stigmatization and stereotyping is making everything worse. He then proceeded to explain how the teacher himself was perpetuating these problems with some of the things he was saying in class. Needless to say, Bucky’d basically had to drag Steve back into his seat before he could get himself kicked out.)

Steve lifts his chin defiantly, hard glint in his eyes. “It needed to be said. He shouldn’t be an educator if he can’t do his job properly.”

“Yeah, yeah, step down from the soap box, wasn’t trying to start anything.” Bucky rubs a bit at Steve’s shoulder, jostling him with an easy grin on his face until Steve sighs and shakes his head.

“Someone’s gotta do it, Buck.” He says. “Someone’s gotta stand up and say it, throw some punches.”

“And take some in return, huh?” Bucky asks quietly. He already knows the answer, and the way Steve’s mouth sets into a firm line is confirmation enough. Sometimes it still floors him, just how _good_ Steve is. How his heart is so unflinchingly pure.

“God, what did I do to deserve you?” He whispers, head dropping down to Steve’s other shoulder.

Steve stills beneath him. “Buck?”

“Just,” Bucky’s hand tightens and he pulls back just enough to trace his lips up the side of Steve’s neck. “How can you be so fucking perfect? Knight in shining armor, right here.”

Steve laughs softly. “Saying you’re my damsel in distress, Buck?”

“Whatever you want me to be,” he murmurs, letting his mouth actually press into Steve’s skin, leave trails of kisses back down his throat to the dip at his shoulder. “Sunt al tău.”

Steve sucks in a breath. “Buck…” His hand comes up and threads into Bucky’s hair, right at the back of his head, and grips tight. “Ce…”

“Te iubesc.” He walks them back into the bathroom, door closing behind them with a resolute thud, plunging them into darkness. But he still knows his way, hands slipping down to move over Steve’s thin chest. “ _Steve,_ god, I love you so much.”

His mouth is back on Steve’s throat, sucking a bruise into pale skin, and Steve lets his head fall back, other hand going around to grab at Bucky’s shoulder. “Buck, love you too. Always.” His voice breaks into a soft moan when Bucky licks over abused skin, turns into a hiss when Bucky finds a new place to bite.

Hickey after hickey goes onto Steve’s skin like dots of paint on a canvas, scattered in indiscernible patterns that bloom pale pink and beautiful. And Bucky can’t wait to get Steve back to their room, see his work in the light, the way Steve’s sure to blush all the way down when he catches sight of himself in the mirror.

But for now he’s content having Steve caught between his chest and the bathroom door, mouth finally capturing Steve’s lips as they both groan and fall into each other. Shameless. And in love. Bucky’s hands on Steve’s hips and Steve’s long fingers still tangled in dark brown hair.

“Sunt al tău.” Steve whispers into Bucky’s mouth. “Always.”

Something warm and dazzling sparks inside Bucky’s chest, an entire nebula of stars bursting into life at the words. It’s enough to take his breath away. Leave his mind buzzing as Steve’s warm hands continue to hold him close, sharing breaths and promises and so much more.

“Totu-i vis şi armonie.”

“Da,” Steve says back, one palm sliding down to cup Bucky’s cheek, pull him in for a kiss that’s soft and cloying and sweet. And Bucky falls in love all over again.

←→

“Okay, so does anyone have anything they’d like to share? Any thoughts on the environment here on campus or personal experiences?”

It’s yet another Wednesday, yet another hour and fifteen sitting in the history of gender and sexuality class he has with Steve. And it’s...well, today it’s pretty much been torture.

Usually, it’s a pretty decent environment, some notes and some discussion, maybe a video here and there, and usually the teacher isn’t _too_ much of a dick. (And when he is, Steve never fails to call him out on it.) But today they’ve been reading articles claiming the battle for homosexuality is over and how successful new laws have been and how the pride parade is just too much, overdoing it, creating more problems than it’s worth.

And while he knows seeing other points of view is important, especially if you want to create a coherent counter argument, it still sucks to slog through all the bullshit.

Which is why today has been like swallowing glass, listening to everything and wanting to shake whoever came up with such idiotic ideas. Bucky’s knuckles are clenched white on top of his jeans, and Steve practically has steam coming off the top of his head.

The only consolation Bucky’s been able to cling to is that he knows Steve won’t let this shit go, will come up with this amazing speech about how things really are. He can see the gears turning in that brilliant mind even now, and is curious to see what Steve has to say, is looking forward to nodding along with him and feeling that rush of pride that always comes from seeing Steve stand up for what’s right.

So of course today’s the day their professor glances around the room and gives Steve a squinty-eyed look before tacking on, “Anyone who hasn’t shared before?”

And fuck, if he thinks he’s going to shut down the only person in here who’s willing to stand up and tell off the world, then he’s got another thing coming. Because Bucky may not be as eloquent as Steve, as passionate and unrelenting, but he can still hold his own in all kinds of fights.

His chair squeals against the tile floor as he stands. “I’d have something I’d like to share, actually.”

Seventy-some pairs of eyes snap over to stare at him. And he can’t blame them, really, he can’t recall the last time he said a word in class save a snide comment under his breath to Steve. But goddamnit, if Steve can’t fight the way he wants to then it’s pretty much in Bucky’s job description to take up the mantle. And he can’t think of a better cause than this.

“First,” he says, voice carrying in the now silent space. “I’d just like to say that I disagree entirely. With pretty much everything that’s been said the last hour.”

The professor rolls his eyes to the ceiling. Bucky plows on regardless. “Saying our struggle for accepting different sexualities is over is like saying our struggle for feminism is over, like saying our exploration of _space_ is over. It’s ridiculous. Growing up as anything over than straight is still a difficult thing to handle, there are still homophobic assholes out there and just downright terrible people. You’re expected to not just navigate a society built for the heterosexual, but also live up to standards and ideals for ‘non-straights’ that society and the queer community itself creates and perpetuates. And ignoring or downplaying the problem is _definitely_ not something that should be done. And Pride? Pride is extremely important for the queer community, it’s about accepting who you are and not feeling ashamed of it no matter what. And that’s something that should be _celebrated,_ not written off as ‘over the top’. I don’t know if the people who wrote these articles just live under a rock or are just that oblivious, but you don’t have to be a genius to know that they’re wrong.”

He huffs out a breath, feeling the words slowing down and his anger waning. “So yeah, that’s what I have to say about that. Sorry I didn’t really address your question, professor. But I felt like it was important to say.”

The room is completely silent as he finishes, and his own mind is buzzing, running through what he’s said, trying to think if he’s left anything out. But then their professor clears his throat.

“Interesting point of view, ...”

“Bucky,” he says, rolling his eyes because he _knows_ the professor knows his name.

“Bucky. Right. Well, does anyone have anything to say to that? Any response?”

It’s quiet for awhile, then some kid in the front row raises their hand and turns around to give Bucky a condescending look. “Those are all good points, and I agree with you about the need for continued vigilance. However, I think you’re assuming a bit too much for someone with not a lot of direct life experience.”

Bucky’s face scrunches up, because _what the actual fuck…_ “I’m sorry, what?”

The girl rolls her eyes. “How would you _know_ about gay life experiences,” she says slowly, as if she’s talking to a child. “If you’re not actually gay?”

And oh, oh fuck, Bucky can’t even help it, just starts chuckling under his breath like he’s been possessed.

(It might be the lack of sleep the night before, or maybe the coffee going through his veins, the way Steve is cackling through his own anger at his side...)

“You…” He says, “Are you serious right now?” He tries to calm himself enough to form coherent sentences, but can’t help that he’s still half-laughing as he says, “You’re really going to tell me I can’t defend the queer community because you think I’m not a part of it? Well first of all, there’s this lovely term, _ally._ The whole ‘straight but not narrow’ thing? And second of all, how the hell do you think you can assume my sexuality? You _cannot_ sit there and try to lecture me on how I’m not allowedto support the queer community, like that’s actually a thing, and justify it by stereotyping the shit out of me.”

The girl looks offended, but Bucky really doesn’t care at this point, just spreads his arms out and raises his voice above the somewhat normal speaking voice he’s had it at before. Because everyone needs to hear this. “And this is exactly what I’m talking about. This is why we still need to work for acceptance. Because you shouldn’t automatically be assuming I’m straight and denying my sexuality based on _your_ preconceived notions of what gay should look like.”

She’s glaring at him with a pinched expression on her face, and waits a moment before lifting an eyebrow like he’s a child who’s just told her the sky is purple. “You can’t honestly expect me to believe that you’re not firmly in center field.”

“Center field? We can’t even say straight anymore?” He shakes his head. Ridiculous.

Her prim voice, sounding way too smug for his liking, snaps him back into focus. “But you’re not denying it. You just hopped up on your soapbox to defend your friend. Which, while laudable, acting like you _understand_ homosexuality just because your friend is homosexual is a problem in and of itself.”

Bucky can’t stop shaking his head. “There are so many things wrong with what you just said.”

“Oh?” She crosses her arms, eyebrows raised expectantly. (And damn, how can that look be so fucking obnoxious on anyone other than Steve?)

And alright then, apparently they’re doing this.

“First, I don’t believe Steve-- who I can only assume is the ‘friend’ of mine you were referring to-- has ever identified himself as gay to you. So you’re just assuming things again.” He lets that sink in before going on. “Second, there’s this other lovely term you might not be aware of: bisexual. It’s a thing. You should look into it. Third…” He glances down at Steve with a pleading expression, and Steve just rolls his eyes and stands up, moving a bit closer as Bucky goes, “Meet my _boyfriend_.”

And then he takes Steve’s hand, holds it up so everyone can see the matching tattoos there, linking their wrists like pieces of a puzzle. Then he leans forward and presses a quick kiss to Steve’s mouth. Quick, but not chaste, a liberal drag of lips and flash of tongue just for the pop and dazzle. And if the way Steve smirks against his mouth is anything to go by, he entirely approves of _this_ kind of PDA. The kind of PDA that says _fuck you very much._

(Because Steve values starting shit and causing problems more than he does his sense of PDA related propriety. And _fuck_ Bucky loves him.)

Bucky pulls away with a smug grin. “That far enough off center field for you?”

The girl’s face is priceless. Stricken. And Bucky wishes he could take a picture for posterity. Of the whole class, really. Because they’re all just staring at he and Steve and each other like they’re not sure what they’re supposed to be doing at this point.

Finally, someone in the back of the room starts up a slow clap, and a few others join in, until nearly the entire room is applauding and Bucky does a showy bow just for the heck of it, relinquishing Steve to flop back in his seat as he does a final salute before sitting down in his own. The teacher clears his throat and waves the class back into order.

“Yes, well, thank you for that...enlightening...moment, Bucky. Steve.”

Bucky manages to force a tight smile and sees Steve doing the same, neither of them even remotely interested in his thanks.

The professor nods awkwardly then moves to the computer to rush through the last few slides, Bucky sinking down in his seat and eyeing the clock in the meantime. That is, until a pencil tip is digging into his side.

“Ow, fuck,” he hisses, turning to swat at Steve’s hand.

Steve isn’t deterred. “Wow, Buck.” He says, looking fondly impressed. “What was that?”

“Guess I was just feeling inspired.” Bucky grins, throwing in a wink for good measure. Steve rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother hiding the tilt to his lips, the proud little smile that tells Bucky more than words ever could. “You’re not the only one ‘round here who can kick up a fuss, Rogers.” Bucky teases.

And Steve chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, apparently. Gonna give me a run for my money?”

“Hell no,” Bucky shudders at the thought. “I’ve got my hands full just pulling you out of the shit you start. Don’t need to start any of my own.”

But in the end, his little stunt turns out to be more than worth it. More than a handful of their classmates come up to him after dismissal and tell him how they agree, how they’re grateful he’d stood up for what they were too afraid to say, or even how he’d changed their thinking. That last one is what makes Bucky feel the most happy, and what has Steve smiling up at him like they’ve just conquered the world. (And maybe they have, in a small way, changed a few people’s worlds at the very least.)

It’s amazing, and he’ll never forget it, but he’s still going to leave most of the rabble rousing to Steve. After all, at least one of them has to be able to post bail when it all goes to shit.

←→

The sun is bright coming in through the window, teasingly welcoming despite the bitter cold of the air on the other side. It’s a lazy Sunday, the last in October, and Bucky’s still in bed. Steve is too, for that matter, spread out over Bucky’s chest all warm and soft and adorable. He takes in a deep breath, lifting his head to bury his face in Steve’s soft hair, then flops back down onto the pillow with a smile on his face. Because it’s going to be a _good_ day, Bucky can feel it.

A few minutes later and Steve’s awake and fidgeting into a more comfortable position, one skinny thigh wedged between Bucky’s own, making soft noises into Bucky’s chest.

“Morning, babe.” Bucky smiles, reaching out a hand to slide it through Steve’s hair, marveling at the way Steve leans into the touch. About how beautiful Steve is with his hair mussed and his entire demeanor still slightly soft from sleep.

“Morning.” Steve hums back, stretching and making little sounds in the back of his throat before pushing up onto his elbows. He glances blearily to the other side of the room then groans, head dropping to Bucky’s sternum. “We should get up,” he mumbles. “It’s already past nine.”

And usually Steve’s pretty good in the mornings, rolling out of bed and hopping to it as soon as his alarm goes off. But that’s when he has actual classes and things to do. On the weekends- it’s a whole different ball game. (Bucky kind of loves it, loves that he’s one of the few that knows this side of Steve.)

“Past nine?” He grins, poking Steve slightly in the side. “The horror.” Bucky’s heavy sarcasm earns him a smack to the chest, but he grins through it all, laughing lightly and making Steve bounce along with his stomach until Steve is shaking his head and smiling as well.

The sun is shining in through the curtains and Bucky breathes it all in. Let’s out a sigh and a smile and soaks in the warmth of the sheets and Steve still pressed tight up against him.

“You’re such a jerk,” Steve says, flicking him once before rolling to the side to get out of bed.

But Bucky catches him with one arm, drags him back in for a moment before pressing himself all up along Steve’s back. “Don’t go,” he whines. “We don’t even have anything going on today, just stay for a bit.”

Steve keeps squirming though, despite Bucky’s coaxing, so Bucky lets him go with a huff and a final kiss between his shoulder blades. “Fine, don’t enjoy a day in bed with me. I see how it is.”

He gets a look at that, Steve squinting at him through his bangs before he starts puttering around the room. And for a moment Bucky contemplates getting up as well, because the sun is up and so is Steve and he could probably find some way to be productive, but then he decides the warmth of his bed is too good to let go and flops back onto his back to try and get in some more sleep. Because even though Steve isn’t there, the warm feeling still hasn’t left Bucky’s chest. And if he just closes his eyes...he can picture Steve’s sleep-soft face all over again.

But not even a minute passes before he’s jostled from his state of semi-dreaming, the mattress shaking beneath him. Needless to say, he’s a bit disoriented. And it only gets worse when he sees why. (Because Steve _has_ in fact decided to rejoin him in bed, but instead of being curled up to Bucky’s side he’s standing directly above him. And instead of getting dressed, Steve has apparently opted for staying naked a bit longer.) Steve’s feet are planted at Bucky’s sides and he’s staring down at him like this isn’t incredibly fucking weird. The view is pretty amazing, so Bucky isn’t really going to complain, but then he sees what Steve’s got in his hands and can’t help but groan. “Seriously, Steve?”

But Steve ignores him, lifts the camera up to his face and snaps a picture. And Bucky can only imagine what he must look like-- bed head and sheet indents and just generally gross.

“Is this really necessary?” he asks, more like whines, but he figures he’s perfectly within his rights to.

Steve continues snapping pictures from different angles, ignoring Bucky completely with his tongue caught between his teeth. “Need them for reference,” he finally says, taking a few more shots before letting the camera rest against his chest, harsh black against delicate collarbones enough to have Bucky’s attention momentarily stolen. “You always move too much when I try to get you to model, so now I’ve got these.” He taps the camera with a finger, then lifts an eyebrow when he sees how Bucky’s staring. “Really Buck?”

And c’mon, it’s not like Bucky can _help_ it. His boyfriend is standing over him naked. He’s pretty sure that means he’s allowed to stare. Especially with the way the hickies he left the night before are standing out so pretty on Steve’s chest and neck.

Bucky curves his hands around Steve’s calves and rubs at the soft skin there, thumbs brushing through blond hairs as he smiles up at where Steve’s once again looking at him through the viewfinder. “Can’t help it that you’re so pretty, Steve.”

“Don’t make me stomp on you.” Steve threatens. He pokes at Bucky’s side with one of his toes and snaps another picture. “Besides, you’re one to talk. You know I’ve heard the girls on our floor talking about your infamous walks to and from the shower. Apparently they’re big fans of my handiwork.” He wiggles the fingers of one hand, grins smug as shit, and Bucky can’t help but laugh, pulling his arms over his head and covering his face.

Because he knows exactly what ‘handiwork’ Steve is referring to-- the lines of red scratch marks all down his back and sides, because Steve is a demanding fucker in bed and isn’t afraid of letting Bucky know when he needs to go faster. And he isn’t past holding on for dear life when Bucky starts fucking him through the mattress. So. Steve may have a collection of hickies all across his upper body and thighs after a night together, but Bucky always looks like he’s been attacked by some kind of vampiric wildcat, a huge hickey on whichever side of his neck Steve decides on for that particular night and Steve’s frustration all down his spine.

He kind of loves it though.

He lets out a huff of surprise when Steve’s weight suddenly lands on his stomach, insistent hands pressing into his chest and the camera dangling between them, Steve’s legs hugging Bucky’s waist. There’s a look in his eyes that has Bucky swallowing back a moan, hands moving to grip Steve’s hips. “ _Steve_ ,” he groans.

Steve bites down on his lower lip. His fingers press a little harder into Bucky’s chest.

“Babe, please.” Bucky murmurs. “Please, want you so much.”

And then Steve’s on him, camera disappearing off the side of the bed before thin hands are cupping Bucky’s face and pulling him close, mouths crashing together desperately. It’s teeth and tongues and lips and messy panting into each other, exchanging moans between breaths and just trying to hold on through it all. Somewhere in the moment, Bucky’s hands slide back to grip Steve’s ass and then Steve is grinding down into him, hips rocking against Bucky’s stomach until Bucky can’t take it anymore. He flips them over with a growl, wedging himself between Steve’s thighs and hitching them further up his hips before pressing down against Steve with his chest, keeping him pinned to the bed as their mouths come together again.

It’s intense and bruising for a few minutes more, Steve writhing under him and Bucky groaning into Steve’s open mouth, but then he takes a breath, forces himself to lean back a bit and slow it down. Stretch it out. Because he wants this to _last._ Wants this to be one of the times when he takes Steve apart with his fingers and mouth, makes him _beg_ to finally get Bucky inside him.

He wants to make Steve feel like he’s in fucking heaven.

He tells Steve as much, mouths it into his neck, punctuates words with kisses until Steve’s gripping at his hair and yanking him back up to his mouth.

“I get it, Buck.” Steve breathes, voice deeper than Bucky’s heard it in a while, the combination of sleep and arousal doing amazing things to his vocal chords. “You’re young and horny. Now how about you do something about it and fuck me?”

It’s teasing and meant to get Bucky moving faster, but Bucky resists, just chuckles softly into the reddened skin underneath his mouth. “I will, babe. Promise.” And then he’s licking a stripe from the base of Steve’s neck to just below his ear, taking the lobe into his mouth and biting softly before nuzzling at the shell. “Gonna make you feel so good.”

“Fucking hell, Bucky-” Steve cuts off when Bucky slides a hand across his chest, palm rubbing over one pec and lingering, callouses creating friction in all the best ways.

“Gonna make you drop that mouth of yours, Rogers.” Bucky murmurs. “Always so quick, aren’t you? Gotta be a smartass.” He leans up and covers Steve’s mouth with his own, plunders it with his tongue until Steve is groaning open and warm beneath him, fingers scrambling at Bucky’s shoulders to pull him closer. His teeth drag at Steve’s lower lip as he leans back, nose nudging under Steve’s jaw. “Gonna go so slow, Steve, make you lose your mind. Love it when you can’t even remember to be smart.”

Steve shivers at the words, head tilting further back so Bucky can nuzzle along his throat. A soft moan escapes his lips and Bucky kisses his chin, his mouth, then drops down to add even more hickies to the already impressive collection on Steve’s chest. Steve’s fingers find his hair and grip, tugging loosely at the strands.

“Bucky, you bas-”

The words die in his throat when Bucky’s hands slide up the inside of his thighs, gentle and teasing and spreading him open just that little bit more, thumbs rubbing at the sensitive skin where hips meet thigh.

“Let me,” Bucky whispers, kissing right over where Steve’s heart is beating rapidly in his chest. He lifts his head to meet Steve’s hazy eyes. “Let me do this. Want to see you let go.”

Because _shit_ is it beautiful. Steve trusts him, Bucky knows he does, but that doesn’t mean they have sex like this all the time. Don’t have time for it, usually. Or the patience. But they’ve got the whole day ahead of them and Bucky’s fully focused, centered around the idea of watching Steve come apart. Steve must see this in his expression because he shudders and lets his head fall back against the pillow.

His chest rises and falls quickly before he sucks in a breath. “Okay,” he whispers. Then, a bit louder. “Okay, alright.”

“I’ll take care of you,” Bucky promises. “Make you feel so good.”

He’s already leaning back down, ready to draw more patterns into Steve’s skin with teasing fingers and tortuous mouth, when he hears Steve say, _“I know”_ like it’s both the most precious and the most natural thing in the world, voice soft but unguarded. And Bucky’s head snaps up. His eyes frantically search Steve’s face.

“Steve,” he groans. “Fuck.” And he can’t help it, hooks Steve’s legs back up around his hips so he can grab Steve’s face between his hands, lean down and kiss him like he’s dying. Steve opens to him easily, lets Bucky say everything he can never quite manage in words (no matter how many languages either of them know) with nips of his teeth and drags of his lips, sensuous and slow. It’s _I love you_ and _you’re perfect_ and _how is this even real?_

Steve just arches up into him, pulls him even closer and grounds him so he knows he isn’t dreaming. Says it all back in his own way. With the way he shudders under Bucky’s hands, presses into him and lets soft sounds escape his lips.

Steve always has the most creative ways of saying ‘I love you’ and Bucky treasures each and every one. Revels in the language they share that’s completely wordless, born out of back alleys and dusty playgrounds and worn-out couch cushions. It’s nudging shoulders and feet knocking beneath the table, glinting eyes and knowing smiles.

Every time Steve lets Bucky see him sick, it’s an ‘I love you’. Every time he runs fingers through Bucky’s tousled hair, drops a chocolate bar on Bucky’s desk, whispers to him in every language he knows because it does something to Bucky’s heart rate...Bucky knows that’s how Steve says his ‘I love you’ even if the words themselves come few and far between.

“I love you,” he whispers now, out loud because he has to, can’t contain it anymore. His lips are pressed tight to Steve’s skin and he bites at a hip bone before licking over it soothingly. “I love you, Steve.”

Steve lets out a shaky sigh above him and Bucky keeps going, covers Steve’s entire body with kisses, lips brushing over smooth thighs and the sharp curve of ankles, the dip of a knee. He murmurs an ‘I love you’ each time his lips leave skin. His hands find Steve’s shoulders once he’s done with his front, cup them gently and guide him to his stomach, mouth immediately finding the heart that’s just for him. The dark block of ink just between Steve’s shoulder blades.

“I love you,” he says, lips dragging across overheated skin. “You’re beautiful. So, so beautiful.”

Steve’s fingers clench into the sheets where they’ve become bunched on either side of his head. Bucky covers them gently with his own, presses his fingers between Steve’s.

“Bucky…” Steve whispers. “Bucky, please.”

“I promise, Steve. I promise, I know.” He presses his forehead to the top of Steve’s spine then slowly detangles his hands from Steve’s, dragging them slowly down forearms and biceps until he’s brushing fingers over the sensitive skin at Steve’s sides. Whirls of color beneath his fingertips, ink that he imagines he can feel as he kisses down each notch in Steve’s slightly crooked spine. His lips find each of the dimples at the base before ghosting over the curve of Steve’s ass, hands coming down to knead teasingly at the firm muscles before smoothing down tense thighs.

“ _Bucky,_ ” Steve whines.

Bucky shushes him softly, then bites down on the swell of his ass, just a teasing nip of teeth before he’s pulling away again, leaning back up to nuzzle the side of Steve’s neck. “Love you, babe.”

Steve’s still panting below him as he reaches for the lube, grabbing it from its spot beneath the bed before flicking it open and coating his fingers. Gentle morning sun is still streaming through the curtains and the sheets are rumpled from the night before. Steve breathes harshly into the pillow. “Buck, _please._ ”

“Gotta say it, Steve.” Bucky reminds, fingers teasing the skin above Steve’s tailbone. “Gotta say it first, before I start doing anything.”

There’s a beat of silence, Steve shifting minutely against the covers, and then he’s quietly saying, “You love me.” Feather soft, but ironclad-- immutable.

(It’s something they started about a year ago, something that makes both of them feel warm and hot and bursting inside.)

“That’s right,” Bucky breathes, slips a finger between Steve’s cheeks where it’s all soft heat until he finds Steve’s entrance and sinks knuckle deep. “Love you so much.”

Steve lets out a breathy moan at that and Bucky slowly works more fingers into him, whispering praises and promises and love while Steve breathes softly through it all, eyes going from open to shut to staring at the sheets to turning back to look at Bucky as he speaks. Finally, neither of them can take it anymore and Bucky withdraws his hand, getting more lube and slicking himself up before pressing a kiss between Steve’s shoulder blades.

“Again, Steve.” He murmurs, the hand not covered in lube coming around to support Steve’s chest, help lift him up off the bed.

Steve comes with him easily, supporting himself on his knees and turning around before lying back down on his back, muscles clenching and relaxing as Bucky gets back into position between his legs. His hands find the sheets again as Bucky lines himself up, closing his eyes with a hazy sigh. “You love me.”

“That’s right,” Bucky murmurs, mouth pressed to Steve’s neck as he sinks in, feels Steve part around him as he moves in gentle thrusts until he’s fully seated. It’s perfect-- that out-of-body kind of warm and hazy, everything tinted, muted, the faintest trace of the surreality of dreams.

There’s laughter in the hall, but their door is locked, and the moment isn’t broken, caught in their own bubble as Bucky dips down to catch Steve’s mouth with his own, lips dragging together sweet and slow. Steve’s lips part for Bucky’s tongue and Bucky sighs into the warmth, fucking Steve with his tongue at the same pace as his hips, nearly unbearably slow, Steve’s head and hips both tipping back with each movement.

“Fuck, Steve,” he groans. His hands find Steve’s thighs, smooth over them appreciatively before lifting up to find Steve’s hands, prying them from where they’re still wrapped in the sheets and threading their fingers together to hold on tight. Another languid roll of his hips and Steve’s moaning softly into his mouth, fingertips pressing into Bucky’s knuckles as his back arches.

And Bucky knows what he’s doing, knows he’s trying Steve’s patience and resolve. It’s a dance that they have, Steve’s pride not allowing him to ask for much, and Bucky insistent in wanting to give Steve everything he can. Not because he thinks Steve can’t get it himself, but because Bucky wants to be the one to do it. Wants to give Steve the world if he can.

(It helps that Steve feels the same way towards Bucky, can at least relate to the feeling.)

They last for a while longer, Bucky’s hips barely moving and Steve just letting himself be loved, but then a whine is coming from Steve’s throat, heels of his feet digging into the small of Bucky’s back. And Bucky can take a hint. His hands come down to grab Steve’s hips and he leans up, gets into a better position before thrusting forward harder, faster, watching as Steve’s eyes flutter closed and his mouth stays open and bitten pink.

It doesn’t take long, both of them already worked up, and Steve comes with a quiet cry between them before Bucky leans down to kiss Steve through his last few thrusts, filling Steve with his own release before falling carefully to the side.

A hand shoves at his shoulder and he rolls to his back, reaches out to pull Steve onto his chest, hiding a smirk in soft blond hair when Steve nuzzles in beneath his chin.

“Taci,” Steve murmurs sleepily, squeezing at Bucky’s skin where his arms hooked around his side. “Te iubesc.”

Bucky’s heart blooms warm, arms squeezing Steve closer in his own silent ‘ _I love you’_ as his fingers brush over a blocky ink heart. Steve smiles, Bucky grins, and the sun is shining bright through their window. It is a _perfect_ day.

←→

“So, any chance you wanna tell me what the readings are about?”

Bucky’s walking backwards, hands in his pockets and grin on his face as he watches Steve stretch his neck, artist’s fingers brushing over the ink peeking out of his collar. Steve shoots him a look, rolls his eyes before running a hand through his hair.

“It’s only twenty pages, Buck. You can do it yourself.”

“Awww, but Stevie,” Bucky whines, voice pitched high like it hasn’t been since he was five. He flutters his eyelashes for added effect. “Don’t you love me?”

“I’m not even going to grace that with an answer.”

They pass by a garden area edged by a low wall, most of the flowers long gone dormant save for some bronze and gold colored mums, and Steve hops up onto the stone barrier, looking down at Bucky from his few extra inches of height. A light breeze ruffles his hair and Bucky frowns, eyes flicking over Steve’s lightly dressed form with a renewed sense of worry. (He’d tried to convince Steve to wear a heavier jacket before they’d left for their walk, but Steve refused to listen to him.)

But Steve, seemingly able to read Bucky’s mind at the most inopportune of times, flicks the side of Bucky’s head before he can even get a word out.

“Can hear your internal nagging from here, Buck. I’m _fine._ ” His voice dares Bucky to object, firm at the edges and put together like he’s ready for a verbal standoff.

Bucky heaves a sigh. This is an argument that he really doesn’t want to get into right now. (Their disagreements over how to best look out for Steve’s health have lasted entire _days_ \-- nearly an entire lifetime in Bucky’s eyes. Any amount of time Steve’s mad at him is too much time.)

“Alright, alright.” He says, hands up and unthreatening. “Didn’t even say anything...not my fault you’re picking at my brain.” He mutters the last bit and Steve shoots him a look from the corner of his eye, still walking along the wall, boots scuffing against white limestone.

It’d be the perfect height for Bucky to step forward and bury his face in Steve’s chest, forehead against a bony sternum and hands at Steve’s hips. But he resists. Keeps his hands firmly in his pockets and leaves Steve to stare up at the sky.

They’re both vigilant, more in tune with their surroundings than they appear: Steve watching the milky gray sky, how the streaks of clouds mesh and combine, sweeps of muted color to be transferred to paper and a feeling to be molded into metal. And Bucky’s watching Steve. The way his gait is steady and lilting, slightly off kilter as it always has been thanks to the crick in his spine, the way his fingers twitch like he’s already working in his studio, the way his head tilts to the side and his lips press together. There’s a few gaps in the stone that Bucky notices as well, places where Steve could trip or stumble, so Bucky makes sure to stay close. Just in case.

But he knows Steve hates when he hovers, and he trusts Steve. He does. Knows he’s more than capable of taking care of himself. So after a few minutes of silence, his thoughts drift and so does his focus, eyes taking in the cracks in the pavement, the leaves cluttering the ground, the bare branches of the trees.

They end up wandering into some kind of event, students clumped together and watching what looks like a cultural showcase, different performers and foods scattered around the open area in front of the auditorium. Steve’s long since hopped down from the wall and his shoulder brushes Bucky’s arm as they make their way through the crowds.

“Hey, Steve. What’s that say?” Bucky asks, looking at a sign in front of the Association Française. And yeah, he can read that bit...but the sign _itself_ is a mystery. Something to do with Romeo and Juliette and getting struck by lightening…

He turns to see why Steve hasn’t answered and comes to a halt, immediately spinning around before cursing under his breath. Because Steve’s done it _again._ Gone and fucking disappeared without a single warning. And normally if Bucky lost track of someone in a crowd, he’d be calm and do the logical thing of calling them, but of course Steve is one of those people who never answers his freaking phone. Leaves it places or forgets to turn it off of the mute setting.

And losing Steve isn’t like losing other people for many other reasons. Including his propensity to find trouble, whether that be getting into a fight or his lungs deciding to stop working at the worst possible moments. Like now. When Steve’s gone off somewhere and _Bucky’s_ the one with his inhaler.

It’s moments like these when his relationship with Steve isn’t all warmth and good feelings. Because right now he just feels cold-- icy dread seeping down his spine as his eyes scan the crowd. His palms are sweaty and his chest is anxious and tight, thoughts confused and slightly panicked because when Steve disappears...half the time when Bucky finds him again he’s bloody or winded or beaten or bruised, or some combination thereof.

He pushes out to the edge of the mass of people and starts walking along the perimeter, looking for a flash of blond or a glint of silver, the navy blue of Steve’s jacket. It’s not until he’s gone back to nearly the path they entered the clearing from that he sees Steve, hunched over something on the ground with his knees tucked into his chest and his hands in front of him where Bucky can’t see. Bucky strides up to him and clears his throat, causing Steve to glance up at him before standing and wiping his hands on his pants.

“Hey, Buck.”

“ _Hey, Buck.”_ Bucky repeats. “ _Hey, Buck?_ Really, Steve? That’s it?”

Steve just shrugs. “What?”

“You _know_ what-” Bucky shakes his head. They’ve been through this a million times before. “Gonna put a GPS in your ass one of these days, Rogers, I swear…”

Steve just laughs, lips curving and eyes glinting, entirely too distracting to be fair.

“And I’ll implant a magnet in your side,” Bucky grouses. “Put one on your inhaler too. Then you won’t forget it everywhere.” Steve’s still laughing and Bucky crosses his arms. “Мудак.”

Steve’s lips are curved into a grin as they start walking again, leaving the crowd behind and wandering down a dirt path, mulch kicked over the top and twigs snapping under their feet. A few minutes later and Steve nudges him gently, looking up at Bucky with a cautious smile.

“Fucking punk,” Bucky mutters, but loops an arm over Steve’s shoulders to pull him close.

And Steve doesn’t put up a fuss, just slots up against Bucky’s side like he belongs there and mutters his own fond _“Jerk”_ in return.

←→

It’s 7:36 on a rainy Friday in the middle of November.

It’s the week before Thanksgiving break and Bucky had been getting a few of his and Steve’s things together when he’d gotten the text.

_Barnes, you’re gonna want to come down to the bar. It’s Steve._

It’s 7:41 on a rainy Friday in the middle of November.

It’s already dark thanks to daylight savings and Bucky’s sprinting through the rain, still wearing the sweats and t-shirt he’d been lounging around the room in.

He gets to the bar and there’s a small crowd gathered around the front which he runs right into the middle of, knowing that’s where Steve is and not caring about anything else. There’s a group of guys being pulled apart, still throwing drunk punches and slurred insults, but Bucky doesn’t pay them any mind, heads straight for the wiry figure pulling itself up from the ground.

“Steve,” he pants, getting right up into Steve’s space and putting a hand to his face, brushing over the blood trailing from his lip. “Steve, what the hell happened?”

Steve pushes his hand away. “They were harassing people, Buck. Had it coming. I asked ‘em to leave first and they wouldn’t.”

He glances over his shoulder to the guys in question, who are leering at him in a way that has anger curling hot in his chest. He stands up slowly and feels Steve straighten up by his side.

“You one of them too, then?” One of the boys asks. “You a fucking fag, too?”

Bucky’s eyes turn to stone.

“Must be, look how he was with that queer. He’s either one himself or close as it gets.”

The boy who’d just spoken spits on the ground and takes a step forward. There’s only two of them at this point, since the other three are still being held back by some helpful patrons at the bar, and Bucky sizes them up quickly before clenching his fists.

“What’re you picking on him for?” Steve suddenly asks next to him, stepping forward like he’s going to fight again. “Thought I was the one you wanted, since I got you and your friends kicked out and all.” The smirk on his face is anything but apologetic and Bucky isn’t sure whether he wants to throttle him or kiss the look right off his face.

He’s saved having to choose when the second guy comes at them, aiming for Steve like he’s going to knock him out of the way first before coming at Bucky. As if it were that easy. As if Bucky’s the one they should be most worried about. As if Steve wasn’t going to throw a mean right hook into the guy’s face and leave him with a bloody nose and a hilariously confused expression.

Honestly, Bucky’s amazed by how often people underestimate Steve. Don’t realize what he’s capable of.

Because Steve fights like a feral cat, lashing out with all he’s got and never backing down, never _staying_ down. People think Bucky’s the one you gotta look out for and yeah, sure, he is… _if_ you make it past Steve first without getting your nose punched in, because while you’re all worried about Bucky Steve will drive his knuckles right into your face and if you still get back up _then_ Bucky’s there to finish the job.

Which is what he does now, easily kicking the other guy to the ground while Steve grapples with the one who’d charged him, stepping in just as Steve gets sent to the ground again. And fortunately, after another well aimed punch and glare, the two guys are done trying to fight them so Bucky can crouch down at Steve’s side.

The small crowd starts to dissipate and he can see police lights in the distance. He doesn’t need to hear the sirens to know it’s time for them to get going.

“Alright, Steve.” He says, hand on Steve’s back as he helps (in as covert a way as possible) him get to his feet. “You’ve done what you could, they’re out, the police will take care of it. Now let’s go.”

But Steve doesn’t budge. Of course not.

“I’ve got to make sure they’re okay.” He says, jaw clicking into place in a way Bucky knows means unshakable resolution. So he just sighs, stands up straighter and puts a supporting hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“Where are they then? That them over there?” He motions to a group of students clustered by the door, looking slightly guilty and apprehensive all at the same time, eyeing him and Steve like they’re not sure what to do. Steve nods at his side. “Well, they look fine to me. So can we please go before you end up in a cell overnight again?”

The police are nearly to the curb and Bucky gets his arm over Steve’s shoulders, pulling him into his chest. (At the very least, he might be able to hide how Steve’s bloody and bruised in an obvious I’ve-just-been-in-a-bar-fight kind of way.) But Steve huffs against his side and tries to pull away, at least until a boy and a girl from the group of students catch their eye and mouth _‘thank you’_ and _‘I’m sorry’_. Then the bar owner is coming out to greet the police and he points them over to the guys now sprawled by the curb. He glances in their direction as well, looks down at Steve then up to meet Bucky’s eyes, nods once before turning away.

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief and makes a mental note to come back and thank the man later.

But for now he’s got bigger problems, like getting Steve home and dry and taken care of before he catches his death. (And god how he wishes that was just an expression.)

“Alright, Steve. You seen everything you need to? Can we go now?”

Steve just nods, starts walking forward without saying a word.

It’s 8:05 on a rainy Friday in the middle of November.

It’s cold and windy and he’s frozen to the bone, knows Steve is too by the way he’s shivering against Bucky’s side.

They don’t make it very far before Bucky brings them to a stop, just far enough from the bar to not be bothered by the cops.

“Hop on,” he says, not making eye contact with Steve, just turning his back to him and holding out his arms.

“Buck-”

“No, Steve.” Bucky cuts him off. “I’m not an idiot. You’re limping and until I know it’s not something serious you’re not walking all the way back to the dorm. Now hop on before I have to make a scene.”

It’s dead silence. The sound of rain hitting the pavement, running down the street, into the drains and away. Conversations in the distance. Cars passing by.

Finally, he feels a hand on his shoulder, then another, before Steve is jumping enough for Bucky to get hands under his thighs and heft him up. Steve’s breath his warm on his neck and Bucky leans into it. “You know I think you’re amazing, Steve. Strongest person I’ve ever met.”

Steve huffs into his ear.

Bucky nudges him slightly with his head, starts walking forward. “I’m serious, you know I am.” He gives Steve’s thighs a squeeze. “Tell you every day if you want.”

Steve’s about to say something back, sucks in a breath and opens his mouth, but then someone’s running up to them and making Bucky freeze and spin around, ready to kick the shit out of anyone trying to mess with him. He’s wet and cold and carrying his battered boyfriend on his back. Anyone stupid enough to bother him now is going to regret that decision.

But it’s one of the students from before, looking up at them nervously before thrusting something in their direction. After a moment, Bucky steps forward enough for Steve to reach out and take it, realizes it’s an umbrella just as the girl is saying, “Thanks for-- for before. I know you’re already wet but we just figured, if you’ve got a walk back, it’s better than getting soaked even more?”

Bucky gives her a smile, hears Steve give a sincere, ‘ _thank you’_ from behind his head.

And the girl smiles back, looks over Bucky’s shoulder to give Steve another personal thanks before running back to her friends, leaving them standing in the rain at the intersection.

Steve opens the umbrella above their heads and Bucky starts walking.

They must make quite the sight, Steve with his knees and face and hands bloodied, Bucky carrying him in sopping wet sweats and a now see-through t-shirt that’s stained red where Steve’s holding on. Their hair’s sticking to their faces and Steve’s resting his head against the side of Bucky’s, umbrella held above them as Bucky trudges along.

It’s 8:29 on a rainy Friday in the middle of November when Bucky finally gets them in the door, grabs their first aid kit and shower supplies before heading right back out for the bathroom.

They shower together, crammed into the tiny stall, and Bucky runs careful hands all along Steve’s body, over his head, through his hair, and down his chest. Steve leans into him after a while, forehead against Bucky’s sternum as the warm water falls over their backs.

Someone comes in about halfway through, door slamming shut to mark their arrival, breaking the peaceful silence he and Steve have built. And normally, someone coming in would be grounds for Bucky to start singing obnoxiously, let them know he’s there so they won’t try anything with Steve (a habit that developed a few weeks after the start of the year for obvious reasons, a habit he doesn’t plan on stopping any time soon no matter how Steve scowls at him), but he knows now isn’t the time. So he just keeps running fingers gently through Steve’s wet hair, lets the two towels hanging over the stall door speak for themselves.

They aren’t bothered.

And before long they’re both dry and dressed underneath the covers, Steve resting on Bucky’s chest and Bucky holding one of Steve’s hands, playing gently with the fingers.

It’s 9:02 on a rainy Friday night and normally they’d still be up doing homework, but Steve’s alarm is set and they’ll both be up in time to do it tomorrow.

It’s 9:02 on a rainy Friday night and they’re both sore and tired, happy to fall into bed and each other. Happy to drift off and let the rain wash away the night.

_Sunt îngeraşii de pahar._

←→

“I hope you two realize how gross you are.” Jerome says, pointing his fork at them and narrowing his eyes. “Some of us are trying to eat and you’re over there acting all disgustingly cute.”

It’s Tuesday evening, and that means dinner with friends at the central food court. A plan set in stone no matter the circumstance. (Which is why they’re all sitting at one of the long tables in the center of the cafeteria despite it being the week before finals.) Steve and Bucky are across from each other with a handful of their other friends around them, and Jerome’s complaint earns him quite a few nods of agreement from the others at the table. Bucky would feel betrayed if he weren’t so used to the routine.

Steve, for his part, is just working on his salad, spearing the bit of pasta Bucky had put on his plate and overall ignoring Jerome’s comment (he tends to spend most dinners in relative silence, only chiming in on an occasion where his sass or wit can be put to good use). Some people would say that makes him stuck-up or a stick in the mud, Bucky thinks it just makes him _Steve_. And he loves him all the more for it. Besides, he runs his mouth enough for the both of them.

But he’s not really sure what prompted Jerome’s sudden complaining, since he and Steve haven’t even been doing anything except eating, Bucky occasionally stealing a bite of Steve’s food and exchanging it with some of his own. But either way, he’s not going to let the jibe go unnoticed.

So he sucks the pudding he’d stolen from Steve’s tray off of his finger, then sticks his tongue out like the mature adult he is. “Jealous?”

Jerome makes a face. “No way. I get enough rainbows and bunnies and sunbeams just from living on the same floor as you two, I don’t know if I could _survive_ having any soppy, couple-y happiness of my own.”

“You’d probably explode or something,” Caroline grumbles, taking another bite of her lasagna as Jerome nods in agreement. She’s one of Bucky’s friends from the Russian department, known each other since Freshman year, so he feels perfectly comfortable in flicking her off. (And she wastes no time in flipping him her own finger in return.)

Jerome just shakes his head at them, Steve is still ignoring them, and Bucky chuckles as he reaches across the table and steals another piece of spinach from Steve’s salad, popping it in his mouth while Steve narrows his eyes at him. Bucky just grins back and asks innocently, “What?”

Steve lifts a rather unimpressed looking eyebrow. “Real mature, Buck.”

But Bucky just keeps smiling, taps his feet against Steve’s beneath the table and knocks their shoes together to a made up rhythm in his head.

Jerome groans beside him. “Oh god, they’re at it again. As your RA I demand you stop.”

Bucky traps one of Steve’s feet between his own and pulls it towards his chair. “On what grounds?”

“Pre-emptive public indecency.”

Steve huffs out a breath and leans back in his chair, staring at Bucky as he says, “He wishes.”

Jerome chokes on his drink. Steve grins like the smug little shit he is.

And Bucky gives his foot a squeeze beneath the table, a silent _you’re amazing and I love you_ that Steve smiles at as Bucky turns to Jerome and says. “Pretty sure that’s not how the law works.”

“Well it should.” Caroline grumbles again, since Jerome is still recovering from Steve’s remark. “Prevent a lot of nightmares and scarring that way.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Bucky laughs, flicking a piece of napkin at her. “As if half the population doesn’t get off watching two guys makeout. Steve and I hardly even touch each other in front of you people.”

“But that’s even worse,” Steve’s friend Stephanie groans. “If it’s not the sexual tension it’s the disgustingly romantic gestures you two do to compensate.” She flicks her long pastel blue hair over one shoulder and flutters her eyes up at an imaginary person, voice going slightly lower. “ _Oh Steve, you’re so cute, let me talk to you in some random language no one else understands and make you blush then call you babe when I think no one’s listening.”_ She turns the other way, flicks her hair over the opposite shoulder, voice changing pitch again. “ _Oh Bucky, let me glare at you and pretend I don’t fucking love everything you do. I really just want you to rip my pants off right now but alas, my old-timey morals won’t allow such things.”_

She moves to switch sides again but Bucky cuts her off by flicking even more napkin pieces her way. “That’s ridiculous,” he says, ignoring the paper wads hitting his own chest in retaliation. “I don’t sound like that. And I don’t call Steve _cute,_ I value my life. I call him pretty and beautiful and maybe sometimes adorable, but cute...nope.” He shakes his head through the pain of Steve kicking him beneath the table. “Out of character, your insult is invalid.”

Stephanie rolls her eyes. “Whatever, either way you’re both disgusting. Worse than public indecency. I think we’d all prefer it if you’d just make out at the table.”

Bucky’s about to come up with something defensive when Steve cuts in. “That’s because you’re all perverts and don’t want to pay for your own porn.” Steve says. “I know we’re friends and all, but that’s taking it a bit too far.”

And it’s moments like these that remind Bucky how much of a mischievous troublemaker Steve truly is. Sure, he may seem cute and innocent with his big blue eyes and refusal to so much as hold hands in public, but take away the smoke and mirrors...Steve’s got an even dirtier, more rebellious mind than anyone else at the table. (It’s not Bucky’s fault none of the others seem to have realized that.)

“It’s like they’re _using_ us, Stevie.” Bucky gasps, effortlessly playing along, hand over his heart like he’s truly wounded. “They don’t even like us. They’re just with us for our bodies. Oh the humanity!”

Jerome’s busy choking again, Stephanie’s rolling her eyes, and Caroline looks like she wants to bury herself in her food and never come out. So, all in all, Bucky considers this dinner his and Steve’s point.

“Alright, alright,” he grins, “We’ll stop. Even though you’re totally the ones who started it.”

“Excuse me! Wrong!” Jerome says, poking an accusing finger into Bucky’s shoulder. “Your disgusting attempt at flirting started it. Good grief man, you’re already dating, you don’t need to try and woo Steve every time we eat together.”

(And that is entirely untrue. There will never come a day when Bucky feels he’s done trying to win Steve’s affections. One, because he loves doing things for Steve. And two, the look on Steve’s face is priceless-- and it doesn’t hurt that he knows Steve secretly likes it too. Which is why he’s spent the better part of this dinner not-so-subtly making sure Steve is well fed and smiling at him innocently from across the table.)

But in lieu of the argument, he decides to play dumb. “I didn’t do anything. We’re just eating like usual.”

Jerome throws his hands up in the air, turns to Stephanie and demands that she _‘deal with the annoying, clueless bastards’_.

Stephanie declares them a lost cause.

←→

Trees are creaking overhead, branches swaying in the steady wind and limbs groaning under the coating of icy snow. It’s only the second week of December, but the campus has already turned into a beautifully miserable winterwonderland. And he’s usually not one to complain about the weather, in fact he really loves the snow-- the way it turns everything into a glistening landscape he can see from his dorm window. But right now...he’s not a fan.

Not when it’s past midnight the week of finals and some idiot has set off the fire alarm.

“I’m sorry guys, it’s gonna be fifteen minutes at least.” Jerome says, making his way through the gathering of students with the other RAs.

The fire trucks haven’t even arrived yet, and they’ll have to go through and check the building before the students are allowed back in. It’s a waste of everyone’s time, at one of the worst possible moments.

“This is ridiculous.” Steve grumbles beside him, arms crossed in frustration and as a barrier against the cold. “I should be getting my last French review done and then going to bed, not standing out here.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to them.” He nods in the direction of the three students currently getting written up by the RAs.

Steve huffs out a breath and shakes his head. “It’s just wrong, they decide to break the rules and smoke inside and the rest of us have to suffer for it.”

“I agree, but there’s not much we can do at this point.” He edges a little closer to Steve and throws an arm over his shoulder as nonchalantly as possible, giving Steve a consolatory jostle and wedging him closer to his side. He thinks he’s gotten away with it until Steve cranes his neck to look up at him with an unimpressed expression on his face.

_You’re not smooth, Buck._

Bucky lifts his eyebrows innocently in response.

_I don’t know what you’re talking about._

Steve’s eyes narrow more and Bucky drops his head down to covertly kiss the junction between Steves’ neck and shoulder. “C’mon, Stevie, cut me some slack.” He murmurs into the fabric of Steve’s collar. “Can’t I be worried about you?”

The sigh he gets in return is both exasperated and fond, but also has just a tinge of resignation in it. Enough to have hope sparking in Bucky’s chest.

Because when it gets cold, Bucky always tries to give Steve his jacket or pull him close, but 95% of those attempts end in Steve’s stubborn refusal. So it’s only about half the time and if it’s really, really fucking cold that Bucky can convince Steve to at least let him help. And through their time together they’ve come up with a kind of compromise: that they’ll share. Body heat, jackets, whatever they’ve got with them they’ll both use.

And at the moment, Steve’s got on a long sleeve shirt and Bucky’s got a jacket, not much between the two of them thanks to the fact they were studying in the lounge when the alarm went off. The wind is still blowing cold air down the back of Bucky’s neck and a shiver goes down his spine at the same time Steve shudders against him. He presses his mouth lightly into Steve’s neck.

“Please, Steve?”

In answer, Steve just turns and pushes into Bucky’s chest, keeps grumbling even when Bucky unzips his jacket and ushers Steve inside. The zipper goes back up and Bucky puts a last kiss to the top of Steve’s head before hooking his chin over soft blond stands.

A warm puff of breath hits his neck. “This is ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Bucky teases back. The tightness in his chest is ten times lighter now that he can feel Steve warming up against him, can make sure he isn’t going to freeze or turn blue and lose digits. But he knows they’ve still got a while to go, so he just pulls Steve closer until he’s grunting into his skin.

A few minutes go by and some of their friends drift over, none of them saying much except for the polite hello and perfunctory complaint about the situation. There’s not much _to_ say when they’re all more preoccupied thinking about finals the next day and the freezing weather. But what Bucky finds the most telling is that none of them say anything about the shock of blond hair sticking out of his hoodie, or tease them about it. And Bucky finds it endlessly endearing that their friends are both kind enough and so accustomed to seeing a grumpy lump mumbling into Bucky’s chest on colder days that they don’t even mention it.

The fire trucks arrive with their lights flashing, reflecting off the snow in a surreal kind of way as the firemen file out and head into the building to check things over. They’ve already been outside for nearly fifteen minutes and Bucky hopes they can move quickly and be in and out before too long. Tucked inside the hoodie, they’re still mostly warm, but Bucky would still prefer to be cuddled with Steve inside and under the covers than shivering together out here in the snow. Especially since it’s now nearing one in the morning and Steve is starting to droop into his chest.

“Hey pal,” he murmurs. “You gonna sleep?”

The wind nearly covers Steve’s soft sound of reply, but Bucky catches it, lets it warm his very core as he ducks his head to kiss Steve’s temple. Because he can’t even describe how much he loves sleepy Steve, how he gets so soft and gentle, falls into Bucky like he belongs there. Because Steve is a proud person. Is a private person. And Bucky can still remember the first time Steve fell asleep on him in public, safely hidden in the crook of his neck and breathing evenly into Bucky’s shirt. It’s trust and it’s love and it’s something Bucky treasures despite the occasional drool stains on his clothes.

(The wonders of sleepy Steve is a secret he guards close to his chest, kept carefully in his memories and turning him exponentially softer and more careful whenever Steve’s eyelids start to droop.)

So when the firemen finally leave, firetrucks pulling away and disappearing down the road, Bucky waits for all the other students to file back inside before giving Steve a gentle nudge. “Hey Stevie,” he says quietly, “Time to go inside.” The trees are still swaying and creaking and the snow is a soft blanket all around them, the moon full and round obscured behind a milky haze of clouds.

And Steve nods, mumbles into his chest and starts fidgeting inside their jacket cocoon until Bucky unzips it and lets him out. They leave footprints in the snow as they make their way back inside, then tiny puddles up the stairs to their room-- Bucky making sure Steve doesn’t stumble before shutting the door behind them.

The window offers a glimpse into the wintery world they’ve left behind and the wind is pushing at the glass as a reminder of the cold as Bucky settles them into bed. The blankets are soft, but Steve’s breath is even softer, brushing over his sternum like the faintest of touches.

He holds Steve tighter, closer, and stares up at the ceiling painted in muted greys from the moonlight slipping through the curtains. (He’s still wondering how he ever got so lucky.)

“Eo noapte feerică.” He murmurs, feels Steve’s lips curl against his skin at the words. “Luna tremură galbenă şi rotundă în pahar…”

_Totu-i vis şi armonie._

 

_\---_

**Author's Note:**

> Translations of bigger things/important things:  
> Tu es fou si tu penses que je vais dignifier ça d'une réponse. = You're crazy if you think i'm going to dignify that with a response. (french)  
> J’ai un examen demain et je ne peux pas le rater. Donc, s’il te plait, tais-toi pour cinq seconds. = I have a test tomorrow and I can't fail. So, please, shut up for five seconds.  
> Totu-i vis şi armonie. =all is dream and harmony (romanian)  
> Taci, dracului pervers. =shut up, fucking pervert  
> Nu-ți place? = you don't like?  
> Crezi că vorbește română? =think he speaks romanian?  
> Am crezut că-ți place de fundul meu? =i thought you loved my ass?  
> Da, într-adevăr.. =yeah, that's true  
> Sunt al tău. =I'm yours  
> Te iubesc. =love you  
> Мудак. =asshole (russian)
> 
> (French is from a college level competence with help from Masamiya [thank you!!], Romanian is translated with help from just_reading and Russian is google translate. So take with a grain of salt. And if there's something not in here that you would like me to translate please just shoot me a message.)
> 
> The song Bucky was singing: http://wikitranslate.org/wiki/Sleep,_My_Small_Prince,_Fall_Asleep/Russian  
> The poem if you are interested: http://www.poetryinternationalweb.net/pi/site/poem/item/19334/auto/GLASS
> 
> Also, i'm on tumblr if you want to say hi^^ same username!


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